“Are you here to kill me?”
“No.”
“Then get out of my apartment. You’re not welcome.”
Javier leans forward, clears his throat into his fist. “You know, this isn’t the best neighborhood. A young woman like you should really be more careful and lock her door when she leaves, yes?”
“Get out. Of my. Apartment.”
Javier gives his men a tired, disgusted look. He leans back, crosses his leg over the other, and says, “Do you realize how easy it would be to kill you right now?”
“All due respect, I don’t think it would be as easy as you think.”
“Perhaps. But fortunately for you, that isn’t going to happen. At least not today. If I had my way, you would be dead already. You know this. You know how much I … loathe you. But that party I mentioned before? Apparently he doesn’t want you harmed. He made a deal with my father, and as you can imagine, this deal does not please me at all.”
“So you came here just to tell me that? You know, an email would have been easier.”
A brown envelope lies on the coffee table. Javier leans forward, opens it, reaches inside. Somehow I know what’s in there, and what he pulls out doesn’t surprise me at all.
“Your sister and her husband have two very lovely boys, yes?”
The first photograph he places on the coffee table, right in front of me, is a snapshot taken from a distance, Matthew and Max together in their backyard.
“Even your sister is a lovely piece of work.”
The next photo shows Tina, stepping out of her car.
“And her husband”—this photo showing Ryan coming out of Markham & Davis—“is quite successful at what he does. Yes?”
For some reason I think that’s it for the pictures, but it’s not. Javier pulls out more, spreads them across the photos of my sister and brother-in-law, of my nephews. Shots that are barely recognizable for what they truly are.
“I told you I would show you those pictures, yes?”
Broken bones. Gouged eyes.
“You can keep these, if you’d like. As a … reminder.”
Pieces of flesh. Dried blood.
“From what I’m told, she was a strong woman. Put up quite a fight.”
Cracked teeth. Bits of brain.
“But she wasn’t strong enough, was she?”
Javier sets the envelope aside, pats me twice on the knee, then stands. He doesn’t look back as he walks toward his men, doesn’t say anything else as he passes them. The men follow him; they leave my apartment, shutting the door so quietly behind them it doesn’t make a sound.
Sixty-Nine
The moment after they leave, I jump to my feet. The world has gone out of focus again. My hands curl into fists. I scream, lean down, brush the photographs off the coffee table, pictures of Tina and Ryan, Matthew and Max, Rosalina, floating everywhere. I hurry around the coffee table, through the living room to the kitchen, to the counter where the butcher block sits, five knives nestled into the wood. Without slowing I grab two of them, the longest, and I make a beeline straight for the apartment door, step out into the hallway just as the elevator doors close. I sprint for the door leading into the stairwell, the stairs that smells of mildew and piss. I start down the steps, taking two at a time, three at a time, holding one knife in each hand, running, running, my blood boiling, my heart racing, my entire being shaking so hard I don’t think it’ll stop. I pass the second floor and then make it to the first floor and tear open the door, not caring if anybody is around—which there isn’t—and I head straight for the elevator, gripping the knives as tight as I can, so tight I think I might snap them. I reach the elevator just as the ding sounds and the doors start to open, and Javier’s men are positioned right behind them, just as I knew they would be, and they see me at the last moment but they’re not quick enough to grab for their weapons. I jam the blades into their throats, blood gushing everywhere, and as they fall down I pull the knives out, step over their bodies, bring the knives together and push them straight into Javier Diaz’s chest. His eyes go wide. His face pales. His mouth drops open. And I keep the knives there, don’t pull them out, don’t move them at all, as the elevator doors slide shut, hiding us from the rest of the world.
Seventy
“Goddamn, you sure know how to make a mess.”
Nova has just stepped out of the elevator, the elevator that now has the out of service sign back on it, shaking his head at me.
“So do you think you can take care of it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
“James will be here any minute. He’s bringing back my car. Atticus said he’ll help you.”
Three hours have passed since killing Javier Diaz and his two men. The first thing I did was made sure everyone in the building knew the elevator wasn’t working again. The second thing I did was start cleaning up the mess, which was easier said than done. I called Nova but there was no answer on his cell. I then called Atticus, explained the situation, and for the last hour I’d been calling Nova again and again, thinking maybe Walter was wrong, he had drowned, until Nova showed up himself. Said he had just gotten out and wanted to see if I had bought him his new pickup yet.
“You know,” Nova says, “you’re starting to take advantage of me being a nice guy. All these favors you’re racking up … I don’t know, it’s becoming a bit excessive.”
“Put it on my tab.”
“So what did these guys do to you again?”
“They pissed me off.”
The lobby door opens, an old Korean woman coming in with
