The Sound of Broken Ribs(70)

Lei knew Belinda believed every word of what she was saying. Funny thing was—Lei was starting to believe it too. Other than the pain and the loss of her arm, the accident had helped boost her sales and her public image. She’d rocketed from the lower part of the New York Times’ most popular authors to right below the powerhouses like Rowling and Patterson and Grisham. She’d broken through to people she’d likely never have reached. Her fans ranged from housewives to garbage men, to esteemed news anchors to vapid socialites. She was now a household name, and she hadn’t gotten there on her own. Because of Belinda Walsh and her yellow Toyota, Lei Duncan was a success story.

There are two sides to every story, and every good story has a twist.

Lei slumped back in the chair. She allowed her gun hand to fall over the arm of the recliner.

Lei told Belinda, “I’m sorry.”

Belinda’s mouth dropped open. With visible effort, she managed to close it. “Huh?”

“I’m sorry I kidnapped you. I’m sorry for all of this. I’m sorry we ever crossed paths. But mostly I’m sorry that your husband did what he did to you. I cannot imagine how that must have hurt. Even with all the pain I’ve gone through, I have, for the most part, healed. I can only hope that, one day, you overcome what your husband did to you.”

“You’re fucking kidding me right now. That’s it? You apologize to me and everything is better?”

“No. But we can start to heal.”

Lei lay the gun down on her thigh and dug into her pocket. She yanked out the keys to her rental car and tossed them at Belinda. Belinda caught them with a downward swipe of her hand.

“You’re free to go. I’ll give you twenty-four hours from right now before I report the car stolen.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“You drag me all the way up here just to tell me to ‘get out of here before you change your mind’ like you’re doing me a favor? Fucking really?”

“Go.”

“Fuck you.”

“I forgive you.”

“Nobody asked for your goddamn forgiveness. Do you not see what you’ve done to me? You made me call the cops on Carl, which means they’ll be after me. Me! Then you fucking say you’ll give me a day before you report your car stolen? A car you’re handing me the fucking keys to? You know what… You fucking know what!”

Lei never had a chance.

*

Belinda exploded from the couch, the ignition key jutting from between her index and middle fingers, crossed the distance between her and the author bitch in one long stride, and punched the holier-than-thou cunt right in the throat. The key went in smoother than she could have ever hoped for. Slipped in. Slipped out. A thick stream of blood spurted from the author’s throat and splashed Belinda’s face. Another spurt. Then another.

Belinda grabbed the gun from the woman’s lap before it could slide off onto the ground. She took a step back, aimed, and hesitated a second too long.

*

Lei rocked the recliner forward, throwing herself into Belinda’s midsection. Her prosthetic went flying. Lei tackled Belinda onto the couch. Struggled for the gun. Wrestled for her life. Blood pumped from her neck, washing Belinda’s face in crimson. Black dots entered Lei’s vision. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was already dead. She’d researched for her work how long someone with a bleeding carotid could survive before succumbing to unconsciousness. Not long. About a minute. Without the much needed oxygen-rich blood that arteries carried to the brain, about sixty seconds of wherewithal was all someone got before they drifted away. After that, it was only a matter of minutes before everything else stopped.

That was the tragedy of it all, really—that even before Belinda started shooting, Lei Duncan knew she wasn’t long for this world. It didn’t matter how much she fought or everything she’d been through. The stark truth was that she had started dying the minute Belinda Walsh had hit her. She’d been dying since kneeling to tie her shoes. Dying since she left the house for her morning run.

*

Belinda fired three times, right into the author’s guts. But she could see in the other woman’s fluttering eyes that she was already done for.

All at once, all the fight went out of the author. She went limp atop Belinda and Belinda shoved her onto the floor. Blood still spurted from the hole in the woman’s neck, but it didn’t have much pressure behind it. Like the final bit of water left in a hose after the faucet is turned off. The spurting soon turned to bubbling and the author’s eyes glazed over.

And just like that, it was over.

Belinda didn’t trust it though. It was too good to be true, that it was over, so she stepped forward and shot Lei Duncan three times in the face. The first bullet entered below her right eye, and the following two entered side by side, off-center of her forehead. The author didn’t so much as flinch. The holes in her face and forehead simply opened. They barely bled at all.

Belinda Walsh started laughing. Softly at first, and then with more force. In a fit of mirthless laughter, she flopped onto the sofa.

This was madness. She could hear herself breaking. Coming apart at the joints. Her snapping bones scraping together like broken glass.

But, the sounds she heard—she wasn’t imagining them. No. Not at all.