Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(78)

I put in a filter, tear open a packet, add the water. It takes time, and we don’t talk as the coffee slowly brews into the two-cup pot. I pour. She stands to drink it, sipping with elegant little motions. Her gaze moves around, missing nothing.

“I wanted to see your face when I asked you about Melvin,” she says.

“And what did it tell you?” I ask.

“That you lie very well.” She drinks. I wait. “Well enough you even convinced Sam, and I never thought that would be possible. If you’d known him when I met him, you’d have been shocked how angry he was. How bitter. And how dedicated to hurting you. Has he told you that?”

She leans against the counter. Hot coffee in her cup, no other weapon I can see except the brooch she wears. It’s strange, but I can feel her violence. I can feel the boundless hate inside her, blackening the space between us. The worst thing about Miranda is that I know her hatred comes out of an even greater grief. It makes it very hard to want to hurt her. And so easy for her to want to see me dead.

“Why did you let me in?” she asks. “You could have left me standing on the doorstep. You didn’t have to acknowledge me at all. Yet you did.”

“My husband murdered your daughter,” I tell her. “I do acknowledge you. I know you blame yourself for not being able to protect your child; I’ve spent years trying to protect mine. I understand your rage perfectly. I just wish it wasn’t aimed at me.”

She doesn’t answer. But she puts down the half-finished coffee. I watch her hands. One goes in her pocket. I tense all over. I can’t imagine she has something in her pocket; I can’t see any outline of anything dangerous. But I can’t afford to be wrong.

“Do you even understand why you obsess about me, instead of Melvin?” I ask her.

“Your husband’s dead. I can’t hurt him.”

“You didn’t target him even when he was still alive,” I say. “You came after me. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you got away with it.”

“Because in your narrow little world, it was my job to keep my husband happy, right? My duty to satisfy him in ways that kept him away from your daughter. And I didn’t do that. But I wasn’t Melvin’s keeper. His sins were his own.”

She flinches. It’s a small thing, but I see it. “You knew. Your neighbor saw you helping him. There was video of you with him taking a girl inside.”

“The neighbor lied for attention. The video was faked; the FBI proved it. Do you really believe every wild theory that you think proves your case?”

“I’m going to see you destroyed.”

“Get in line, Miranda. You don’t even rate the time it takes to get a restraining order.”

Now she’s glaring. “The Lost Angels will carry on making your life a misery. If I can’t have justice for Vivian, then at least I can have some comfort knowing you’ll suffer the rest of your life for what you’ve done.”

She’s quick, I give her that. I’m looking at the welling fury in those cold eyes, and her hand comes out of her pocket. I see something in it. I dive sideways, hit the floor as I pull the gun from the shoulder holster, and I bring it into line, dead center on her heart.

I cannot die here. My children need me.

I’m a fraction of pressure from killing her when I realize that though both her hands are raised in a stabbing motion . . . she has no knife. She has a cell phone. Her face is bone white, but she looks exultant, like a martyr giving up her soul. She intended this. She walked in here ready to die. Glad to die if it sends me to prison.

I ease off the trigger.

The exultation fades from her face. She shuts down, and for a second neither of us moves. Then she says, “I really thought that would work.” It’s a mild, careless observation. She lowers her hands.

It terrifies me how close she came. If I’d shot her, it would have looked like cold-blooded murder; she wouldn’t have had a weapon. Chances are I’d have been convicted. I myself told the deputy to let her inside. I’d only have my word to back up a justified shooting. And no proof at all. They’d play the TV-show confrontation at my trial.

Case closed.

I shake off the adrenaline rush as I holster the gun again. “Well, it didn’t, did it,” I say. I climb back to my feet. “Now you can leave, and I never want to see your face again. Not here, not near me, not around my kids. Whatever sick thing you and Sam might have had once, it’s over. Leave him alone too. Understand?”

“We don’t forget,” she says. “The Lost Angels are never going to stop. Never, until you get what you deserve. If Sam gets in the way of that, so be it.”

“The only thing Sam and I deserve is peace,” I tell her. “So do you, by the way. I hope you find it. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

Her mouth tightens a little at that. “Still a vulgar mouth on you,” she says. “Good. I wouldn’t want anyone to feel sorry for you.” Before she leaves, she delivers the lowest parting blow she can. “Tell Sam I miss him.”

I want to pull the gun and empty the magazine into her straight, arrogant back. I don’t. I wait until she’s gone, and then I collapse back to the bed, shaking.

She came so close.

No.

I did.