Tattooed (36 page)

Various knickknacks and furnishings lined the shelf: a cube-shaped side table, a matching cube-shaped table lamp and a bookcase. Normally, Kate would have been incredulous that a mother would have stored a teenage girl’s furnishings to keep for her estranged grown daughter, but these were unique pieces. Clearly chosen for style and design.

“Your mother was very organized,” Kate said.

“I know. It was a pain when I was a teenager, but it has its uses.” Kenzie hoisted the box marked
Friends (Imogen?)
off the shelf, and placed it in the far corner against the wall. “Here, have a look through that.”

Kate glanced at the dim overhead light. The box was in the shadow, but the room was so narrow Kenzie would not be able to access the boxes on the shelf otherwise.

Kate crouched down in front of the box and flipped off the lid. Kenzie threw a quick glance at her, and then began to investigate the contents on the shelving unit, moving quickly between boxes.

Kate peered into the box. The hair on her arms shivered. This was a time capsule from a lifetime ago. There were things in the box that Kate had not realized were missing until she stared at them seventeen years later.

She pulled out Imogen’s Language Arts binder, her sister’s name written in a girlish, pretty script. It was purple. Her favorite color. A pencil case. Kate lifted it up, hoping to find some loose Polaroids hidden underneath, but something glinted. It was a chain. Her mother had given Imogen that chain for her thirteenth birthday. They had looked all over the house for it after she died.

A whoosh of a heavy object coming toward her head was her only warning.

She lurched sideways. But it was too late.

Her head exploded in searing pain.

She collapsed on top of Imogen’s box.

50

K
enzie gazed down at Kate’s head. Brown hair spilled over the edges of her sister’s box. Blood glistened from the spot where the cube lamp had connected with Kate’s scalp.

That was easy.

So was finding the gun.

Her mother had been very clever. When Kenzie saw the box marked
Garden,
she guessed that the gun was in there. Now the next, most crucial question: Would it work?

She retrieved it from the box and unlocked the catch, pushing the barrel down. The cylinder gleamed in the light. There was not too much rust. And there, in the final two chambers, sat the unused bullets.

The coke had carried Heather through the tattoo. It gleamed black and glistened red on the back of her neck.

“Do you like it?” John had asked Kenzie, ignoring Heather.

“I love it.” Kenzie’s mind raced, soared, flew. The cocaine had hit her system and her nerves sizzled on her skin. She couldn’t believe John had set this all up. That’s why he had been gone before their gig—he had taken his tattoo kit and the booze out to the bunker and hidden it in the bushes.

He had done it for her. All for her.

John dug around in the backpack and pulled out the gun.

Heather had gasped. Kenzie snickered. The girl was such a drama queen. “Why do you have a gun?” Heather asked, her gaze darting from John to Kenzie, then to Lovett, whose eyes gleamed with excitement, and then back to John again.

John stroked Heather’s cheek with the muzzle.

The sight of the hard metal pressing against her soft cheek was such a turn-on.

“It’s for a game, darling.”

Heather staggered to her feet, the combined effect of cocaine and vodka making her stumble as she grabbed her shirt from the ground. “I think it’s time for me to go.” Her voice trembled.

McNally grabbed her hand. “Not until you play.”

She yanked her hand, but she couldn’t break his grip. Of course she couldn’t, Kenzie thought. John was invincible. So was she. They could do whatever they fucking wanted to.

“Let go! I want to go home.”

John twisted Heather’s arm behind her back. “You can’t leave yet, Heather. We’re not done.”

The air within the small concrete walls was thick from Heather’s fear, feeding Kenzie and John’s excitement. Kenzie had never seen John so rough. Every nerve in her body snapped and crackled.

God, she loved him.

Heather shot a terrified look at Kenzie. “Tell him to let me go.”

“
Don’t be a baby,” Kenzie said. “It’s just a game. We’ve all played it before. And no one got killed.”

“Really? You don’t use real bullets?”

Lovett pushed up behind Kenzie, while John took Heather’s hands in his own. “You have such pretty hands, Heather,” he said. He put the gun in her palms, and clasped both his hands around it, forcing the gun to point to the floor.

“Guests always go first, Heather.”

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

Kenzie swigged some vodka. “Don’t be a baby, Heather. You’ve got the best odds out of all of us.”

Then Lovett grabbed Kenzie’s arms from behind.

The vodka bottle crashed to the ground.

“Look what you did, you idiot,” Kenzie cried. “Now it’s all gone.” She tried to shake him off. “Let go of me, you jerk!”

He glanced at John. Kenzie glared at him. “Tell him to let go of me, John!”

“Here’s the deal, ladies. It’s winner take all.”

The walls were spinning. Kenzie tried to focus. What was John talking about? “I don’t get it.”

“I’ll get Heather to demonstrate.” He cocked the hammer.

Kenzie waited for him to push the gun up to Heather’s temple.

Instead, he aimed the gun at Kenzie’s chest. He winked at Kenzie over Heather’s head.

“What the hell are you doing, John?” Kenzie yanked her arms, trying to break Lovett’s grip, but Lovett held her fast.

“Don’t miss, McNally.” Lovett’s voice was tense.

“Winner takes all,” John said. “Pull the trigger, Heather.”

“Will you let me go if I shoot?” the girl asked McNally. Her makeup ran in two black streaks under her eyes.

He grinned. “If you are the winner.”

Heather closed her eyes. Her chin trembled.

The gun gleamed. Hard, cold, its edges smudged. Kenzie could not keep her eyes from it. John’s gaze locked onto her face. You’ll be fine, baby, his gaze said. Trust me.

His hand, covering Heather’s, pulled the trigger.

Kenzie tensed, bracing herself.

The gun clicked.

Heather sagged.

The rush that went through Kenzie was like no other she had ever experienced. Her mind soared, spinning, flying, exulting.

This was the biggest high of them all.

She wanted John. Right now. Against the concrete wall.

“It’s my turn,” she said. Her voice was high, thin, not her voice at all.

John tossed the revolver to Kenzie.

Lovett ducked.

“You are fucking crazy, man!” Lovett cried. “It could go off.” But he was grinning.

Lovett covered her hand with his own. It was a strange contrast of sensation: cold, hard metal on her palm; hot, sweaty flesh on the back of her hand.

“I can do it by myself,” she said. Everything swayed. The gun’s grip pulsed against her skin.

She aimed the gun at Heather.

The girl stared at her.

Don’t. Please,
her eyes begged.

“Pull the trigger, Kenz,” John said. “She’s all yours.”

Kenzie barely noticed. The gun curved so naturally in her palm. It was meant for her hand, it was meant for her body, it was meant for her.

And no one else.

She pulled the trigger.

In that split second, she knew.

A bullet had been in the chamber.

A loud crack exploded in the small rear bunker. Then a gasp.

“Holy Mother of God!” Lovett cried.

Heather fell backward against McNally. Blood bubbled from her chest.

Kenzie yanked her hand from Lovett’s.

“
You did it, Kenz,” John said. He grinned.

“Help me,” Heather moaned.

Blood streamed from the wound in her chest.

John let her crumple to the ground.

She moaned again.

Kenzie’s mind crashed to a halt.

She had played this game and had never been beaten by the bullet.

All the coke and vodka rushed up into her throat.

Oh, God.

What had she done?

The smell of blood filled the small concrete room.

John grinned at her.

What would happen when they left these walls? In a few hours, when dawn broke?

She had just shot a girl.

Her. No one else.

And John was going to strangle the girl.

She knew it. She remembered what he had drawn on that sketch.

She was going to puke.

She lunged out the door and broke into a sprint, still gripping the gun.

It was only later, while rinsing the gun in the sink, that she had discovered the other two bullets in the gun’s chamber.

Jesus, she could have killed herself with that while she had been running.

Then another, more chilling thought hit her.

Had John meant it for her?

Would he really have killed his obsession?

She still didn’t know. But she wasn’t going to hang around and find out. She snapped the cylinder and locked the gun, weighing it in her hand.

She had told McNally to wait ten minutes, and then come find them.

She was ready.

She didn’t think he was armed, but she didn’t know for sure.

And she sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances.

The guy was definitely psycho.

And he would never leave her in peace.

It was either her. Or him.

Then she would kill Kate. She had no choice. If Kate lived, she would talk. Kenzie would be convicted. If Kate died, it would be a tragic murder-suicide. Two bullets from the same gun that killed Heather Rigby. A rather neat solution, if she did say so herself.

She heard a rustle.

She flattened herself against the wall, cocked the gun and waited.

Blood hammered in her ears.

A low groan broke through the silence.