Moonshot(69)

“I love you,” he said, pulling at the holder of my ponytail.

“I love you too,” I gasped, kissing his neck, the taste of it salty champagne, my hands gripping at his uniform.

“Come home with me tonight. We won. You promised.”

“Tomorrow morning,” I swore. “Just give me until tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait that long.” He kissed me again, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“Yes, you can.” I stepped back, his hands falling, my chest heaving. “I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

“I love you,” he repeated, his eyes stuck on me.

“Always.” I smiled, pulling my hair back, tucking in my shirt. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

I ran back to him for one last kiss, then turned and slipped through the door, leaving him in the dark room, the taste of him still on my lips, my promise hanging in the air. I ran up the service stairwell, toward the sky level, back to Tobey. One flight before the top, I stopped, pulling on my heels, smoothing down my hair, my heart still pounding. Taking a deep breath, I slowly climbed the final stairs, back to Tobey.





107



Even though the deaths had stalked my mind, invaded my thoughts, and dominated my nightmares for over two years, I’d never felt in danger. I’d felt pressure, I’d felt blame, I’d felt guilt—but never fear.

That changed when I rounded the final bend in the stairs and came face to face with evil. The man stood at the top of the landing, and I knew. I knew it instantly, as clearly as I knew my love for Chase. As clearly as I recognized my mistake. As clearly as I now knew a win would not satisfy.

I hesitated, his name taking a second, my mind sluggish in the face of danger. Finally, it came, a squeak off my lips.





“It wasn’t about me trying to be God. I was just in a unique position to see into a part of the Grants’ lives that no one else could. And that position came with a degree of responsibility. Tobey and Ty were one of those meant-to-be couples. And that was really that. They just couldn’t seem to move out of their own way to make that happen.”

Dan Velacruz, New York Times





108



“Dan?”

Of anyone I’d ever pictured, Dan Velacruz was the last person I’d ever thought capable of murder. I’d known him for over a decade, his face appearing whenever anything newsworthy happened, his pieces guaranteed to paint us in a positive light.

Nothing, in that moment, in that empty stairwell, seemed positive. I stared at him and tried to figure out the pieces I was missing from this puzzle. He pulled his hand out of his cheap suit pocket, and I watched, time stuttering to a stop, as he opened the blade.

I stepped backward, and felt the edge of the stair, my descent stopped as I balanced at the top of the flight. “Please.” The word was tissue paper against fire, a whisper of smoke that he couldn’t have heard. He stepped toward me, and my hand tightened on the railing.

I could run. I could kick off these damn heels and sprint, barefoot, down the flight. But kicking off Louboutin slingbacks wasn’t an easy task, and it would certainly eat up precious seconds, seconds where his fingers would close on me and that knife could gut me. Just like Rachel’s side. Just like April’s neck. An image of Tiffany flashed before me, her eyes blank, her mouth open, her caked and dried tongue sticking out slightly through the opening in her lips. My tongue would not dry. I’d be found before then, unless he planned on sneaking me out of Yankee Damn Stadium after a World Series win. The win reminded me of the curse, a curse that should be beaten, our fans safe. I found my voice, the edge of my left heel hanging off the edge of the step. “We won,” I said weakly. “Shouldn’t everything be fine? I mean…”

“You thought the killings would stop,” he stated, seeing my thought process, a look, almost pity, crossing his face.

“Yes.” He shouldn’t be here, in this stairwell. It was a private one, for staff only, used for emergencies when the staff elevators were too busy, the stale air in here proof of their non-use.

“I didn’t kill them because of the World Series, Ty. That…” he waved his hand into empty space, the knife in it flashing, “that was an assumption the papers made, an assumption the police adopted, all of it embraced by the fans. Only Yankee fans would make this all about baseball.”

“It wasn’t a stretch,” I pointed out, my stupid mouth unable to contain itself. “The Yankees’ necklace, the girl in the jersey right outside our gates—”

“Oh, Ty,” he interrupted, his voice quiet and sad, stepping forward. Closer. Closer. The knife in arm’s reach. If he punched out, right now, it could hit so many vulnerable places. My stomach, cutting across the faint stretch marks that showed in harsh light. My heart, so full and happy, just minutes earlier. My lungs, empty caverns that had suddenly forgotten how to function. I watched it, his hands stilling as he stopped, and I lifted my gaze slowly, carefully, to his face. A face filled with so much pity that I almost forgot he was the enemy. “You are so much smarter than this. Think.”

I tried to think. I tried to understand. I tried to see an escape to this madness. But my mind failed me on all three fronts. Instead, I began to panic, painful bits of the past pushing forward.