“One fact is you haven’t lived here long. You’re not fully aware of my position in this community, or the history behind it.”
She wondered, sincerely, why he thought any of that was relevant, but didn’t bother to ask.
“I’m aware, and your position and history don’t alter the facts of what transpired here early this morning. It was very disturbing to be awakened in that manner, and to witness your son attack Chief Gleason with a knife.”
“Fact.” Blake slapped an index finger on his open palm. “It was the middle of the night, and therefore dark. I have no doubt Brooks Gleason goaded my boy, threatened him. Justin was simply defending himself.”
“That’s inaccurate,” Abigail said calmly. “My security lights were on. I have excellent vision and was less than ten feet away during the attempted assault. Chief Gleason clearly asked your son to show his hands, and when your son did so it was, first, to puncture the cruiser’s tire and, second, to threaten Brooks with the knife.”
“My son—”
“I haven’t finished correcting your inaccuracies,” she pointed out, and stunned Blake into momentary silence.
“Only then, when your son threatened him verbally and with gestures, did Brooks draw his weapon. And still your son would not drop the knife. Instead, even when I stepped out with my own weapon, your son lunged at Brooks with the knife. In my opinion, Brooks would have been fully justified in shooting your son at that time, but he chose to disarm him hand to hand at a greater risk to his own safety.”
“Nobody knows you around here. You’re an odd, solitary woman with no background or history in the community. If and when you tell that ridiculous story in court, my lawyers will rip your testimony to bits and humiliate you.”
“I don’t think so, but I’m sure your lawyers will do their jobs. If that’s all, I’d like you to leave.”
“You just wait a damn minute.” Blake stepped forward, and Bert quivered, growled.
“You’re upsetting my dog,” Abigail said coldly. “And if your assistant attempts to draw his sidearm, I’ll release my dog. I can assure you he’ll move faster than he can draw his weapon. I’m also armed, as you can plainly see. I’m a very good shot. I don’t like strangers coming to my home, trying to intimidate and threaten me. I don’t like men who raise violent, angry young men.”
Like Sergei Volkov, she thought.
“I don’t like you, Mr. Blake, and I’ll ask you to leave for the last time.”
“I came here to settle this with you, to apologize and offer you compensation for the inconvenience.”
“Compensation?”
“Ten thousand dollars. A generous apology for a mishap, for a misunderstanding.”
“It certainly would be,” Abigail agreed.
“The money’s yours, in cash, for your agreement that this was, indeed, a misunderstanding.”
“Your proposal is I accept ten thousand dollars in cash from you to misrepresent what happened here this morning?”
“Don’t be stubborn. My proposal is you accept the cash in my assistant’s briefcase as an apology, and you simply agree what occurred here was a misunderstanding. You’ll also have my word that my son will never step foot on your property again.”
“First, your word can hardly regulate your son’s behavior. Second, it would be your son, not you, who owes me an apology for this morning. And last, your proposal constitutes a bribe, an exchange of money for my misrepresenting the facts. I believe attempting to bribe a witness in a criminal investigation is a crime. The simplest solution, and certainly the best outcome for you, is for me to say no, thank you. And good-bye.”
She stepped back, shut the door, clicked the locks in place.
He actually beat on the door with his fist. It didn’t surprise her, Abigail realized. His son had inherited that same unstable temperament and illusion of entitlement. With her hand resting lightly on the butt of her gun, she walked back to the kitchen monitor, watched the assistant attempt to calm his employer down.
She didn’t want to call the police. More trouble, more interruptions, more ugly behavior.
It had shaken her a little, there was no shame in admitting it. But she’d stood up to the intimidation, the threats. No panic, she thought now, no urge to run.
She didn’t believe in fate, in anything being meant, but if she did, maybe—theoretically—she’d been meant to go through these two experiences, the reminder of Ilya, and now of his father, to prove to herself she could and would stand up.
She wouldn’t run again. If she believed in fate.
“We’ll give him two minutes, from now, to regain some composure and leave. If he doesn’t, we’ll go out again.”
But this time, she determined, her weapon would be in her hand, not in her holster.
As she meant it literally, she set the timer on her watch, and continued to observe him on the monitor.
His blood pressure must be at dangerous levels, she thought, as his face darkened, his eyes literally bulged. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his prosperous chest as he shouted at his assistant.
She hoped she wouldn’t have to call for medical assistance as well as the authorities.
All she wanted to do was finish her work and spend a little time working in her gardens. This man’s difficulties weren’t hers.
At the one-minute, forty-two-second mark, Blake stormed back to the car. Abigail let out a small sigh of relief as the assistant made the three-quarter turn and drove away.
All these years, she thought. Was it irony she was once again a witness to a crime, and once again the subject of threats and intimidation?
No, she didn’t believe in fate, and yet … it certainly felt as though fate had decided to twist her life, and circle it right back to where she’d begun.
It was something to think about.
She looked at her work, sighed again.
“I think we’ll take a walk,” she said to Bert. “I’m too annoyed to work right now.”
Her mood leveled out in the air, calmed when she walked through the trees, studied the progress of wildflowers, considered again her private seating area with its view of the hills. She would start a search for the proper bench very soon.
She felt … happy, she realized, when she received a text from Brooks.
How about I pick up some Chinese? Don’t cook. You’re probably tired.
She considered, texted back.
I’m not tired, but I like Chinese food. Thank you.
Moments later, she got another text.
You’re welcome.
It made her laugh, picked up her mood a few more notches. Since she was already out, she gave Bert a full hour of exercise, then went back home to work with a clear mind.
She lost track of time, a rarity for her, and was prepared to be annoyed when her alarm beeped again. If that disagreeable man had come back, she wouldn’t be so polite, she determined.
Her mood shifted yet again when she saw Brooks’s cruiser. A check of the time showed her she’d worked past six.
No gardening today, she thought, and put the lack of that pleasure on the head of the disagreeable man and his stony-faced assistant.
But she shut down and went to the door happy—again—at the prospect of having dinner with Brooks.
Her smile of greeting turned to concern when she saw his face.
“You didn’t sleep.”
“We had a lot going on.”
“You look very tired. Here, let me take some of that. You brought a great deal of food for two people.”
“You know what they say about Chinese food.”
“It’s not really true. You won’t be hungry an hour later if you eat properly. I see you brought pijin to go with it.”