Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(12)
She shut off the shredder and carried the bucket over to an oxyacetylene torch next to the fan. She attached a rosebud tip, pulled on a pair of welder’s goggles, fired up the torch, and melted the license plate scraps, keeping the torch moving to make sure she didn’t go through the bottom of the pail. The contractor bag with the wig and other potentially contaminated materials went in next. She scoured everything down with the 6,000-degree flame. Billows of black smoke rose from the pail like an evil spirit, but the fan sucked it all away and expelled it, and in seconds, the contents of the pail had been reduced to an undifferentiated, glowing lump.
She killed the torch, removed the goggles, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath. Out of danger now. And nearly done.
Keeping the lights out, she stripped off everything—the gloves, the boots, the leathers, even her underwear. The riding gear got hung near the door. The underwear she threw into a small washing machine in the kitchen, along with some other laundry, running it on a hot cycle. She grabbed a yogurt drink from the refrigerator, keeping one eye closed to preserve her night vision against the interior light, chugged it, and chased it with a big glass of water. Then she took the hottest shower she could stand, washing her hair, scrubbing her body with an exfoliating cloth, standing in the billowing steam to let the heat boil the last of the night’s tension out of her. She wasn’t worried about the open windows. The Glock, always close at hand, was on the toilet tank next to her.
When she was done drying off, she went back to the shredder. The contents of the bucket had cooled, and she threw the entire thing in, bucket and all, collecting the newly made confetti in a new contractor bag. She’d get rid of the bag in some dumpster tomorrow, but even if it were found here tonight, it could no longer incriminate anyone in anything.
The first light was beginning to show in the eastern sky. She turned off the fan and closed and locked the two windows. Just one last thing to do.
She knelt on a mat in front of the shrine—a small wooden Buddha, an incense brazier, and a photograph of her and Nason, all that remained to her of when they were girls in the forest. She set the Glock on the mat next to her, lit the candle and the incense, and placed her palms together at her forehead in the traditional Sampeah, closing her eyes and dipping her head forward as she did so.
“I love you, little bird,” she whispered in Lahu. “I will never forget. I will never stop looking. And one day I will find you.”
She paused, and added in English, “I’ll learn something at the funeral. Something I can use against Weed Tyler. I’m so close, little bird. I’ve waited so long. And I know you have, too. I know.”
She maintained the pose until the incense had burned low. Then she slipped into bed and lay on her back. She would use an eyeshade soon against the morning sun, but for now it was still dark enough. She breathed slowly in and out, the sheets cool against her skin, a slight tingle in her extremities.
She closed her eyes and in her mind replayed everything about the evening. Studying Barnett’s file. Reconnaissance of the neighborhood. Buying the wig, the glasses, the yoga outfit, all for cash from stores outside the city. The ride into Marysville that night. Stripping off the leathers and putting on the makeup in a fast-food restroom. Walking into the bar, nervous as the whole thing went live. Catching his eye. The flush of excitement as he sauntered over.
Her heart began to beat harder, and she parted her lips to draw more air. She flexed her legs and brought her knees up a few inches from the mattress, the sheets sliding smoothly under her toes and the balls of her feet.
The smell of his bourbon as he got increasingly drunk, whatever self-control he had fading, his judgment occluded. The way he looked at her. Knowing what he was thinking, planning.
She shifted her weight to one shoulder, then the other. Her knees widened and one of her hands drifted down between her legs.
The way he had grabbed her shoulders and shaken her. How he had tried to pull her in and make her kiss him.
“No,” she breathed aloud, her fingers pressing, rubbing, moving. “No. I don’t want this.”
How he’d ignored her pleas and thrown her down on the grass. His weight as he straddled her.
Her fingers were moving faster now, harder, her breathing loud in her ears. She could feel the pressure building inside her. “No,” she said again. “No.”
His hand on her throat. The sound of his belt buckle.
She sat up and twisted around, her knees spread wide, her free hand gripping the bedsheet, her arm taking her weight. She rocked her hips against her fingers and moaned.
Squeezing his neck, feeling it being crushed in the figure-four of her legs.
The pressure was unbearable now. She gripped the sheet harder and spread her knees wider.
The way he’d scratched at her leg, his efforts frantic at first, then increasingly feeble. Knowing she’d stopped him. Denied him every option. Taken complete control—
And then the pressure exploded, and she cried out, the pleasure obliterating Barnett, obliterating the memories, obliterating everything.
Eventually, it began to slacken. She shuddered once as her consciousness reconstructed itself, then turned onto her back. She lay there, her heart slowing, her breathing coming back to normal, her muscles relaxing as sleep overtook her.
The sun was still below the horizon, but the loft was filling with soft gray light. She reached sluggishly for the eyeshade, not even aware of the tears streaking her face.