Page 65 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Well, not for her, anyway.

Armed and ready for anything, Tabitha slipped out of the SUV, tucked the gun into the back of her waistband and covered it with the light jacket she’d worn for traveling, and began strolling down the sidewalk.

Already the concrete was shimmering with heat, promising an uncomfortably hot day. One of the reasons why she preferred taking care of business during the night in hotter climates was so she could sleep her way through the worst of the heat.

Although a rocking tan was nothing to complain about, she supposed. She was rather pleased with the golden sheen her skin had picked up during her stint at the construction site.

The barred security gate serving as a front door to her apartment building squeaked open on badly rusted hinges after several hard tugs. Inside, she was instantly assaulted by the scent of urine, both old and fresh. There was a lot of new and… inventive artwork on the walls, mostly spray paint accompanied by a few splatters of dried blood and a couple of dents in the plaster.

Taking the elevator was literally an invitation to be raped—it was regularly occupied by a vicious homeless man who went by the name Mangle. He tended to beat and mug anyone who stepped inside what he considered his territory, and upped his game to include rape if an unlucky woman fell into his trap.

Tabitha had made his acquaintance the day she moved her stuff into the apartment. A brief and pointed meeting of minds where she’d done some mangling of her own, leaving him curled in a puddle of his own piss, cradling the remnants of his crushed balls.

Mangle gave her a wide berth whenever they happened across one another now.

With the stupid loop of Don’t leave, time to grieve on repeat, she trudged up the grungy stairs on high alert. Her eyes scanned the shadows for threats, tracking everything down to the scurry of the building’s resident family of rats.

On the first floor, she stepped over a young girl sprawled out on the beige carpet, stoned as fuck and snoring like a drunk on a bender. Someone had been busy writing an expletive-riddled love note on the wall above a scattered handful of used condoms.

If and when she returned from Ireland, she was definitely going to find a new place, somewhere with a bit more class… and a health and hygiene code.

She checked the doorframe to her apartment, noting the almost hairlike slivers of clear tape she’d attached to the door and jamb were intact. Pulling a lone key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and warily pushed it open, just in case.

It felt empty, which was always a good sign. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms didn’t rise, and she couldn’t hear anything but the rumble of traffic out on the street and the junkie’s snores from down the hall.

Needing quiet, Tabitha shut the door and leaned back against it, fighting the ridiculous urge to cry.

No man was worth her tears, she told herself, and she’d given Grit too many of hers. He was a big boy, he wasn’t going to pine for her simply because she’d upped and left him in the middle of the night.

Chances were her note was scrunched up into a ball and thrown into the trash, forgotten. He’d be packing his bags, eager to get home after a shit assignment, and thanking his lucky stars he’d escaped the insanity of her with all his faculties still intact.

In a week, she’d be a footnote in his report to Atticus, if he even bothered to mention her at all.

It was for the best. Sucking back sniffles and swallowing around the tightness in her throat, Tabitha straightened and reached deep for her inner strength. She had shit to do; Irish weasels to track down and skin alive, walls to rebuild with extra fortification, trying to find something productive to do with her pathetically empty life.

Maybe she could take up knitting, that would keep her brain busy, right?

Shaking off her melancholy mood, she strolled over to the upholstered pouffe by the small, barred window and flipped it over. A quick tug on the black material on the underside broke apart the Velcro, revealing the secure lockbox stored inside.

She pressed her thumb to the identification pad and waited for the sensor to verify she had access, lifting the lid when the locks snicked open. When it came to her personal documents, she’d spared no expense in making sure they were accessible yet protected.

A dozen packets dropped onto the carpet when she tipped the box up, her fingertips skimming over each one until she found the one marked with VII. Returning the rest back to the box, and hiding it once again, she opened the packet and let her future fall into her hands.

Passport, birth certificate, credit cards, wedding ring, photos.

Everything she needed to rebuild herself for the umpteenth time was right here in her lap, and she couldn’t summon her usual enthusiasm for the ruse. Normally she’d be all business, almost excited to reinvent herself, but today she was just… flat.

With a sigh, she shoved all the paperwork back into the packet and got to her feet, setting the pouffe into its rightful place. Giving the rest of the shitty apartment a scathing glance, she moved purposefully into the small bedroom and raided her closet for the appropriate clothes a woman who was married to a fat, balding banker would wear.

Conservative, she supposed. The photo of her ‘husband’ was not really an inspiration for anything flashy or overstated. Packing a suitcase with plain, drab items of clothing took only a few minutes, along with careful selection of jewelry, wigs, and a sad-looking purse that really had seen better days.

Makeup, contact lenses, and a few lotions and potions were thrown in as well.

All done, thank Christ. Now she could get out of here, maybe toss a match as she left and watch the whole sordid pit of iniquity go up in plumes of smoke and billowing curtains of fire.

Yes, that cheered her mood immensely.

Until she opened the door, suitcase in hand, and was met with a fist in her goddamn face.

---