Stall. Stall for time, Murphy.
“You’re the one who broke into the warehouse and stole those attorney files, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Damn straight I am,” he says. “Guess I beat you to them.”
Justin drawing closer. I’m willing myself not to look too closely at him, not to signal Noah.
Keep that flashlight beam down, Justin, or Noah will see it.
The flashlight turns off — Justin is at the threshold of the bedroom now, and the glow from the kerosene lamp is sufficient.
But the closer he gets, the more likely it is Noah will hear him, no matter how violently the wind swirls through this balcony and into the bedroom.
No matter how quietly Justin approaches, with long tiptoe strides.
Keep Noah talking.
“That was a nice move,” I say. “Getting those lawyer files before I could.”
Something in Justin’s hand, something long and thin — a golf club?
A golf club.
“Are those the last remaining copies?” I ask.
“You tell me, Murphy.”
Justin raising the golf club, holding it with two hands.
“How the hell should I know?” I ask.
“Shut up,” Noah spits. “Just stop with all your bullshit.”
Justin is only a few steps away now. It’s all I can do to pretend I don’t see him, not to tense up, not to give away his presence.
“What bullshit?” I ask.
“I said shut up! I’m done with this, Murphy. You know what’s in those lawyer files. You’ve known all along.”
Justin stops, the club poised like a baseball bat, ready for the most important swing of his life.
“I have no idea what’s in those files,” I say.
Noah does a double take, his head cocked, a hint of doubt crossing his face.
Then his eyes suddenly become alert, and he spins to his right just as Justin swings the golf club.
118
All at once—
Noah spins to his right and instinctively ducks—
The violent swing of the golf club, grazing the top of Noah’s head before continuing its momentum and splintering the wood on the balcony doorway—
Noah’s gun, hitting the other side of the doorway during his spin, falling from his hand onto the balcony floor.
I lunge for the gun as Noah, stunned, falls against the opposite side of the doorway.
I scoop up the gun in my hands and fall forward into the bedroom.
“Don’t move, Noah,” I say, jumping to my feet.
Noah, dazed, has managed to remain upright. His woozy eyes drift over to me and his gun, his Glock, now in my hands, now pointed at him.
“Shit,” he says. He touches the top of his head and finds blood on his fingers.
“Hands where I can see them,” I say. “Show me your palms.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”
“He has my gun,” Justin says, still clutching the golf club with two hands, like a weapon.
He doesn’t mean the revolver he lent me — that’s stuffed in the back of my pants.
“That old thirty-eight I showed you at my house,” Justin says. “Noah has it. He jumped me and took it off me.”
I look Noah over. In one jeans pocket, something — some papers rolled up and shoved inside, the edges protruding. The other front pocket, unclear, but a slight bulge, which could be the .38 special.
“What are those papers in your pocket?” I ask him.
“The lawyer papers,” he snarls. “In case you didn’t believe I had them.”
“And the other pocket?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I threw Justin’s gun in the front yard.”
“Show me your palms,” I say. “The first second you don’t, I shoot.”
Noah, his brows curled in a frown, shakes his head, a bemused laugh escaping from him as his eyes bore into me. “You’re good, Murphy. You’re very good. I gotta give you that. But guess what?”
He takes a step toward me.
“Don’t, Noah.”
“Isaac’s preparing warrants for your arrest as we speak,” he goes on. “For all of the murders. All of them. Did you know that, Justin?” Noah nods in Justin’s direction. “Does he know everything?”
“Shut up, Noah. It’s not going to work. And you take one more step, I start shooting.”
He takes another step toward me, but slowly, still showing his palms.
Pushing me, but not pushing me too far. Testing me.
“Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?” he asks. “That night you broke into my house? You buzzed a bullet right past my ear, but you couldn’t finish me off.”
“That’s enough, Noah.”
“Why’d you get me out of prison?” he says.
“Because your trial was unfair,” I say, my voice shaking. My hands are shaking, too.
“My trial was unfair?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “You kill, what, eight people but suddenly you care about the justice system?”
He takes another step.
I fire a round into the floor near his feet. Noah jumps back, startled for a moment. But he quickly recovers.
“That’s the second time you deliberately missed me,” he says. “Why, Murphy? Why not kill me?” Heat coming to his face now, the snarl returning. “Why? So you could kill everyone I ever cared about and watch me suffer?”
His eyes are filling with tears now, his shoulders trembling.
“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” I say. “I didn’t kill anybody.”
My mind racing. Signals flying in all directions. He’s screwing with you, Murphy. He always does this. Anyone who could be this good, for this long, made a living out of mind-fucking people.
He takes another step toward me.
This time, I take a step back.
“Jenna, what are you doing?” Justin says.
“Yeah, Murphy, what are you doing?” Noah says, tears falling down his cheeks, his hands clenched in fists. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”
“I’m taking you in.”
“Jenna, you heard what he said,” says Justin. “Isaac’s gonna arrest you. We know that’s true. You heard Isaac say it himself at my house. Noah’s gonna walk away from this!”
Noah takes another step toward me, his eyes searching mine, pure bitterness in his expression.
I take another step back, an earthquake inside my head.
“You can’t let him get away with this!” Justin cries. “He killed Melanie! He killed your uncle! He sent Aiden to my house to kill you!”
Aiden.
Aiden at Justin’s house with a knife, coming through the window.
Noah shakes his head slowly, his eyes still on mine.
Aiden.
And then it happens. It comes to me, all at once, just with the mention of Aiden’s name.
I can’t be sure. I couldn’t prove it in a court of law.
But I think I finally figured it out.
I fire another round into the floor. Noah jumps back again.
His momentum temporarily stopped, I reach into the back of my pants and remove the revolver Justin lent me.
“Justin, catch,” I say.
Justin drops the golf club. I toss him his revolver, which he catches in both hands.
Noah steadies himself, looks to his right; Justin is now pointing his revolver at Noah.
Then Noah turns again and looks into my eyes, the odds against him mounting now, me holding Noah’s Glock, Justin holding his own revolver. Two people, two guns, two different angles.
I search his eyes for an answer. Every time I’ve looked into those eyes, I’ve received mixed messages, a series of crisscrossing signals, heat and passion and rage and lust and pure hatred.