by Patricia Correll

“No, I can’t. Six years back Ray wanted to meet my folks. He made a big show of asking my dad for my hand in marriage. He never did marry me.”

He understood. Now Ray knew where her parents lived.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. And you can’t warn Ray. I’m going to do it as soon as we pull up to the house. You won’t even have time to get out of the car.”

That wasn’t true. He was faster and stronger than her. She didn’t even know how to use a gun. He could pull over now and take it away from her, here in the middle of the desert.

He didn’t.

They pulled up to the villa a half-hour later. Ray stood on the patio by the fountain. He was chatting with his bodyguards, one in a suit, the other in a Hawaiian shirt. The spray from the fountain arhced a rainbow in the summer sun.

He’d already clicked the safety off twenty minutes back, when he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The driver never wore a seat belt or locked the car door. It was a matter of seconds to throw the Rolls in park, kick open the door and aim the gun over the car’s roof. He’d worked for Ray for eight years. They all looked surprised when he squeezed the trigger.

Blood exploded from Ray’s head. A lucky shot. He went down in a heap. The bodyguards had automatics. Before he could duck down behind the Rolls four bullets slammed into his chest and shoulders. But then, he’d known that it would happen like that.

He landed on his back in the gravel. There was a vague, unfocused image of himself in the Rolls’ shiny black paint. There was red everywhere.

He heard a car door open, a shriek, the crunch of high heels on crushed rock. If she was smart she would go to Ray first. But she didn’t. She knelt over the driver. Her hair had come out of its barrettes. She had raccoon eyes again.

“Why?” She gasped hoarsely. “I never knew you hated him. You never said-”

His lungs felt like someone had dumped an anvil on his chest. “I- don’t hate him.”

Her eyes went wide. She clutched his hand and lifted it to her face, holding it to her cheek. He managed to move his fingers a little, touching her cheek as he had the night Lenny the Rat got killed, the way he hadn’t dared touch her since.

“You…” She began, and choked on a sob.

His fingers wouldn’t move anymore. She lost her grip on his hand as it went limp, and his arm dropped heavily to the ground, leaving a smear of blood on her white skin.

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