Page 48 of Risk of a Lifetime
“I’ll take you to his old man’s fishing cabin over by the lake. Cain and I used to hang out around there. He’s been staying there while he gets his dad’s house in shape, but he’ll stay in town.” JB loaded the extra Glock and handed it to Marcy. “You remember how to use one of these?”
She nodded, again.
“Want a holster?”
“No, I’ll use my coat pocket.”
The Marcy he remembered had a more than healthy respect for guns but knew how to load, aim, and shoot. The gun didn’t scare her. Shooting a person? She could. Worst case scenario, she would. Living with the guilt would come later.
“By the way, this guy may have audio equipment targeted on the house, but we’ve set up a block until I click the detection equipment into action. Ready?”
She blew a long, slow breath through her lips. “Let’s go.”
“Okay. Curtain up. Act one. Time to play the game. Pretend it’s any normal day.” He grinned as he slid from the truck. “You know…like last night when you tried to kill me with that damn soup.”
She opened the passenger door. “Can I help it if you don’t know how to say you’re sick?” She dropped to her feet. “See if I ever make minestrone again. In fact, I’ve decided to go on strike when it comes to cooking.” She clutched his jacket tight around her.
He slung his arm across her shoulder, and they walked inside. Set the lock and closed the shutters at the kitchen window. He used to hate those wooden-sun-blockers as he always called them. Tonight, they were invaluable.
Still doing their chit-chat thing, he sat a listening device on the counter, nodded to her, and clicked the button. They walked to the living room and turned on the lights, closed the blinds. If the perp tried to listen in on them, the device on the counter would alert them. Until then, they could talk normally.
She picked up her horticulture book and headed down the hallway.
“What are you gonna do with that?” He turned on the kitchen light and pulled her against him to whisper in her ear.
“Take it with me.”
“No. Too heavy.”
She shot him one of her looks that could get him to agreeing with anything. Not this time. “Marcy, I’ve got my own backpack. Guns and ammo. And, if push comes to shove, I’ve got to be able to react on a breath.” He hovered over her as she did her patiently listening routine. “No. No book.”
“Okay.” She walked into the bedroom to pack with the book still in her hand.
Who did she think she was fooling with that compliance routine? He knew she’d put the damn thing in her backpack then shuck it halfway to the cabin when even an ounce of extra weight felt like a hundred pounds.
Clicking on the radio, he slipped down the hall, packed his bag, and stashed it beneath the window in the guest bedroom. They’d make their getaway from there. He returned to the living room and hoped she’d be ready when the sheriff’s call came.
By his estimate, the replacement truck should already be in place out on Oak Hill Road, so there was nothing left to do but wait for one of two things to happen. Either, the perp would activate the listening device, or the police hidden in the neighborhood would pick up his movement in the direction of their house. With luck, the police might even nab him. Luck had been with them the past few days. Maybe there’d be a little left in the tank.
He settled back on the sofa and waited. Still no Marcy. Where was she? How long could it take to shove a few things in a backpack? He headed down the hallway and found her leaning against the wall. A backpack on one side of her feet, a duffle on the other side. How much stuff did she think he’d let her take?
Grabbing the backpack, he walked over to the window in the guest bedroom and dropped it next to his on the floor. The thud as the thing landed told him the book was inside. Aw, hell. He moved the book to his backpack.
But, for damn sure the other bag she had in the hallway wasn’t going.
“Marcy?”
“I’m in the living room.”
He walked to the sound of her voice, turned the corner, and caught a glimpse of the other duffle sitting by the front door. Looked like his big bag. Looked like the bag she packed years ago. The one he’d returned to Crayton with.
“I’ve decided I’m not going.” She sat on the arm of the sofa. “I’ve decided I don’t want you around here anymore.” She motioned to the bag. “I’ve packed your stuff, so it’s time for you to go.” She stood, defiant as hell, pointing to the door. “You promised you’d leave when this is over. Well, I don’t want you getting hurt for me, so go now.”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes on hers. “We don’t have time for this right now.”
She stormed to the adjoining dining room, pulled open a drawer in the china cabinet, and rummaged to the bottom. Returning, she slapped a big, white envelope on the coffee table. “Know what this is? This is the divorce papers you signed.”
He glanced down fast enough to see the attorney’s name and return address on the label. “Yeah. I know all about us being divorced. You sent. I signed. I get it.”
