Dear Wife(86)

Despite your words, my heart thrills with excitement. You haven’t reached for the bag hanging at my hip. I’m not even sure you’ve noticed it.

You shove me across the broken glass toward the stairs, and my thoughts are a jumble of desperate Hail Mary pleas. I search the lot for people, scanning the windows for anyone, for a hooker or her pimp or Terry, her face pressed to the glass. But the folks here can sense danger like a dog sniffing out a bomb, and they know when to barricade the doors and stay away from the windows. If anyone is up there peeking out of theirs, watching you force me across the lot, they’re not going to help.

You make me go first, pushing me into the stairwell, and I begin the slow climb. You stay close to my heels, and I drag my feet on purpose. The gun bounces in the bag at my hip, but I won’t win in a shoot-out. I need a distraction, a junkie with a needle in his arm, a bum crouched in a corner, his pants around his ankles. I just need a second, just one, to catch you off guard.

We’re almost to the second-story landing when it happens. The giant brown pile I passed on the way down, one that was definitely not left there by a dog.

You crook an arm, press your elbow over your nose at the unholy smell. “Jesus, how do you stand living here?”

Now.

Gripping the railing in a fist, I lurch backward, throwing my upper body into yours with everything I’ve got. I feel the flash of pain as we butt heads, hear the crunch of your nose connecting with my skull. Blood explodes and you stagger backward on the stairs, but my arm works like a bungee cord. I give a hard tug on the railing and it pulls me forward. The momentum flings me right past the landing and around to face the stairs.

I don’t look back. I hit the ground running.



BETH

I shake off the pain and sprint up the stairs, taking them by twos and threes to the second-story catwalk. I’m rounding the corner when the ground beneath me shakes, your body lumbering up behind me. Your heavy footsteps, the swish of your jeans, the low growl of your voice—bitch bitch bitch. You’re fast, but I have a decent head start, and I know where I’m going.

What, you thought I wouldn’t have a plan? That I would come all this way, lie and cheat and steal, and not be prepared? There you go again, underestimating me.

I tear down the catwalk, screaming and banging on doors. “Help! Somebody help me. Help!”

Nobody’s going to help. This place is a revolving door of drug deals and armed robberies, of tussles in the parking lot and gunshots right outside my door. People stay inside for a reason, to get away from the discarded syringes and avoid stray bullets.

But you’ll think I’m counting on them to save me.

I reach the stairwell on the opposite end and fly up the stairs. The only way away from you is up. My only advantage, the element of surprise.

At the top of the stairwell, I scale the metal rungs on the wall to the door in the ceiling, a heavy metal plate that opens to the rooftop. It’s supposed to be locked, and it was, until I took the lug wrench I found in the trunk of the Buick to the rusted metal loop on the padlock. I give the door a shove, and I’m greeted with sunlight and a blast of heat. I hoist myself out, then flip the door shut, right as you come around the corner.

There’s nothing up here to weight the door down, no air-conditioning units or piles of junk I can haul over. No fire escapes or balconies I can lower myself onto, either, just a sudden, steep drop to the highway, three stories down. Nothing up here but bird shit and a giant billboard, looming above six lanes of traffic.

Whether I am ready for it or not, I am officially done running.

I hear you just below me, metallic dings as you scale the ladder. I edge around the door to the opposite side, step back so I’ll be out of sight. By the time you turn around and see me, it’ll be too late. I’ll already have a gun pointed at your head.

The door explodes, metal clanging against asphalt, sending up a puff of dust and dirt. Your hands clasp either side of the opening, pulling your body up with a lot less effort than it took me. You pop up like a spring, landing on the rooftop with both feet. You look around, realizing too late that I’m behind you.

I widen my stance and aim.

When you see the gun, you laugh. You actually laugh, and your eyes gleam in the sunshine. So does the blood on your face, streaming from your nose, leaving dark red trails down your shirt. You don’t look scared. You look entertained.

“This one’s loaded.” I jut my chin at the gun in your holster. “Put yours on the ground.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not a good enough shot to use that thing. You’ll miss me by a mile.”

“I can hit you between the eyes, through the center of your heart or I can take out a kidney. Just tell me which one, left or right?”

You quirk your head at the confidence in my tone, but your cocky smile doesn’t fade.

“Put your weapon down,” I say again.

You don’t move. “You’re really starting to piss me off, Emma.”

My finger presses harder on the trigger. “You have exactly three seconds to unclip your gun and put it on the ground. One. Two—”

“Okay, fine. Fine.” You unclip the one in your holster and place it carefully on the ground. The Sig is next, the unloaded one you took from my waistband. You don’t try anything, don’t take your chance and shoot me, and that is another mistake. You think you’ll get another chance. You’re underestimating me still.