Bronson was wearing a faded flannel shirt that was half unbuttoned and hadn’t been laundered in weeks, as far as he knew. He hadn’t bothered to tuck it in; the sweatpants he had on didn’t have a drawstring, and the waistband was on its last strands of elastic, so he didn’t see the point.
“Why, good morning, Doug,” Beatrice greeted him. “So glad you could make it.” She backed away and held out a welcoming hand. “Please, come right in. Breakfast should be ready in two shakes.”
Lips pursed, Doug nodded and waltzed inside, with his head lowered like a man preparing to undertake his fate.
Beatrice closed the door, secured the deadbolt, then sped past him into the kitchen. “Sorry, there’s bacon on the stove. Don’t want to chance scorchin’ it. Swine is divine…but these days, it’s worth its weight in platinum—or should I say copper and lead? You almost have to kill a decade of people to acquire it anymore.”
“Yeah. I’m aware,” Doug croaked.
Squaring off with the stove, Beatrice pointed to the kitchenette table. “Pick whichever seat you like. I’ve never preferred either one myself. I’ve only enjoyed a trickle of homecooked meals here. Today, we’ll be having bacon and pancakes made from Bisquick…and real maple syrup. Hope that works for you; it certainly does me…I am absolutely famished.”
Doug inched his way to the first chair within reach, slid it out, and made it his own, his eyes never leaving her.
The kitchen teemed with silence until Beatrice broke it, her back turned to him. “Doug, is everything all right?”
“I’m…fine. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Beatrice sang. “For starters, you’re dressed like a hobo who had his buggy stolen and lost everything. And you’re awfully quiet to boot.”
Doug sighed and sent a nod, snickering at the mess he’d made of himself, even more at how sober he was. “I guess…I’m just wondering…what all this is about.”
“This? You mean breakfast? Or the invite in general? Come now, Doug. Not everything is a conspiracy.”
Doug nearly guffawed at the remark, then strained to consider the most pragmatic way to go about his intended line of questioning.
There was a lot he wanted to ask, so much he needed to know, but Beatrice’s guard was up. She hid her defenses well behind those straight-laced mannerisms and that practiced, Southerner inflection with which she encrusted every word fleeing those gossamer lips. But deprived of that veneer, the broad was simple: a simple, ice-cold, calculating, murderous devil incarnate. An unfeigned fucking butcher bitch in the flesh, a tribute to Lucifer himself; no doubt a proud proprietor of a significant portion of the prince of darkness’s DNA.
“I rustled up some coffee for us,” Beatrice the butcher bitch cooed, engaging the independent brake on Bronson’s humdrum train of thought. “I found some fresh whole bean in the pantry. You’re welcome to it.”
Doug sighed, trying his best to keep it on the q.t. “That would be fine, thank you.”
Beatrice sidestepped to a cupboard, reached for a mug on the top shelf, and stretched to hand it to him. She spun to the coffeepot, brought the steaming carafe to Doug’s mug, then proceeded to fill it. “Cream and sugar?”
“I take both,” Doug said, eyeballing her. “But you already knew that.”
“I suppose I did. Sorry, that must’ve been a reflex.”
“Are you practicing to become a waitress?”
Beatrice snorted. “I don’t think so…but that was clever…I do believe you’re getting back your sense of humor.”
Doug harrumphed, doing so in clandestine fashion at the point Beatrice turned her back to him, returning a second later with two porcelain containers. He thanked her and went about seasoning his coffee.
Aside from the sizzle of bacon frying on the stove, the room went silent again, for a while longer this time. He studied her with exhausted eyes, realizing that nothing this woman said or did surprised him anymore. “You’re pretty damn pleased with yourself. Aren’t you?”
Beatrice sent a glance over her shoulder. “Me? Pleased?” She exhaled. “I suppose I am. Why?”
“It’s just an observation. Am I to take it you’re now…getting what you’ve been yearning for?”
“Mmm…I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh?”
“You asked if I was pleased,” said Beatrice. “I answered. Getting what I’ve been yearning for implies a degree of satisfaction.”
“That you’ve yet to achieve.”
“Dead right, Doug. Dead right.”
Strike one. He let things go for a bit, choosing to give her time to either sop what he’d said thus far up, or finish the chore of breakfast making. Either way, he had a better chance of getting her full attention after.
Several minutes later, Beatrice served breakfast up on plates and set them down, one in front of Bronson, the other for herself. She took her seat across from him and smacked her hands together. “Shall we dig in?”
“Why not?” Doug went for a piece of bacon with his fingers, all the while watching the blonde across from him meticulously butter, slice, and apply syrup to her generous pile of flapjacks. “This…whole thing…the reason behind it. It was personal, wasn’t it?”
Beatrice didn’t say anything at first. With her head tilted at her plate, she eyeballed him while chewing and swallowing her first mouthful. “Have I made it that obvious?”
Doug slowly nodded his head. “You’ve been a different person since the day you saw the damage that fifty cal wreaked at the crime scene. How did you know them?”
“I didn’t. Rather, I didn’t know them. I haven’t the murkiest concept as to who Agent Ken Winters is, nor do I care.”
“Well, that tells me something, at least,” said Bronson. “It reinforces your sudden primordial urge to push this new plan of yours forward.”
The blonde looked away, bearing the unassuming expression of a teenager who’d been caught smoking in school. “Connie and I were friends once upon a time. But that friendship did not endure.”
“And why did it not?”
Beatrice stared angrily, downturned her fork, and forced it to the plate with a grating screech, impaling a
