Page 92 of Truth, Lies, and Second Dates
“So I called his little girlfriend,” Pete continued. “He doesn’t lock his phone, can you believe it?”
“You’re right. This is taking too long. So what now? I’m here. My bodyguard’s down for the count.”
“Your what?”
“Never mind. Just so we’re on the same page, you’re going to kill me because you’re a nasty, vindictive brat, and also because you don’t want anyone finding out you killed Danielle. Do I have that right?”
“That’s only two reasons,” he snapped. “There are loads more. I know what you’re doing, by the way. You’re not clever, and I’m not talking because you’re tricking me. I’m talking because you deserve to know why. You think I won’t get your phone later and wipe whatever recording you’re making?”
“What about Tom?”
“Fuck him.” But he sounded rattled. Ava wondered when Pete had tipped from vengeful sociopath to clinically insane nutjob. Because he was crazy, she was sure of it. Ten years of looking over his shoulder had taken a toll; even when he thought he was free, he wasn’t.
“Fine. Get on with it.”
He just looked at her, then at Tom. And she saw what the problem was. He’d tased Tom, who had collapsed facedown. Meaning he was lying on the electrodes embedded in his
(broad, yummy)
chest.
In other words, Pete couldn’t tase her from where he was. All he could do was zap Tom again. If that was even how Tasers worked—did the thing need to build up a charge? Could you pull the trigger again if the electrodes hadn’t retracted?Note to self: see G.B. about Taser lessons.
Did he have a gun? Or a knife? Would he try and strangle her with those scrawny, manicured paws? She almost hoped he would. She’d stick her thumbs in his eyes so deep, he’d spend the rest of the year looking for a service animal.
“Second thoughts?” she asked.
“No.” He dropped the Taser, which was great. But he pulled what looked like a .38 from somewhere, which was less great. Had it been tucked in the back of his jeans? Dolt.
“You’ve been watching too much TV. That’s an excellent way to get a bullet up the crack of your ass.”
“Shut up.”
“Aren’t you worried about someone dropping by to coffin shop? What are you going to do with the bodies?”
“Frame Dennis. And the only one who’s going to need to shop for a coffin is—nobody, actually. You’ve got nobody. It’s why you always hung out with the Monahans. No one will give a shit when you turn up dead.”
“I’d explain how you’re wrong, but you’d never get it. Also—whoa.”
“Whoa” because Tom’s hand had shot out, clamped around Pete’s ankle like a fleshy handcuff, and yanked. Pete vanishedfrom her line of sight like he’d dropped through a trapdoor and hit the carpet so hard she saw dust puff up.
Her relief was so great, her knees almost gave way. “Figured you were awake.”
“Barely,” Tom muttered, then groaned as Pete kicked him in the forehead with the foot Tom didn’t have a death grip on.
“Don’t.” Ava had pulled her knife—she’d been waiting for her moment, and it was hard to picture a better one—and flipped the blade open.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” he snarled, trying to claw for the gun, which had fallen about two inches out of his reach.
“Finally, we agree. Also, you see I’m armed and will stab you, right? So maybe give up now before everything gets much worse for you?”
Pete finally managed to shake loose, then rolled to his feet, snatched up the Taser, and came for her. Tom’s muscles must still be jelly, because to say he was disoriented would be an understatement. She was amazed he’d kept his grip as long as he had and—oh, shit, here was Pete, four feet away and closing.
She could see that he’d ejected a cartridge from the Taser, leaving the electrodes in Tom but still able to zap her with the electric discharge. The arc was the brightest thing in the gloom of the funeral home.
“If you don’t step off, I will stab you.” She’d had to rush that last bit because she was out of time, sidestepped Pete’s lunge, and brought up the blade of her puny little three-incher right under the shelf of his jaw: schump!
And then, horrified, she let go. Because Pete was making a series of low squealing noises as he flailed for the knife sticking under his chin, as blood poured down, as he missed, grabbed again, missed. It took Ava a couple of seconds to realize that she’d managed to stick the blade in hard enoughand far enough to puncture Pete’s tongue, and oh shit she was gonna barf.
