Her Final Confession

Chapter Thirty-Five

MARCH 1994

Seattle, Washington

Billy’s snores woke Gretchen from a sound sleep. If dragons were real, she imagined they sounded like her husband when he was deep in the throes of slumber, his snoring reverberating through the entire house. She rolled toward his side of the bed and patted the space where Billy normally was—when he was home—but he wasn’t there. She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if she could get back to sleep in spite of the racket he was making. A minute later she was padding through the darkened house to the living room, where the television cast a blue glow over the room. Billy sprawled across the sofa, his feet, still in boots, dangling over the end.

Slowly, Gretchen unlaced each boot and pulled them off. His white tube socks were gray with dirt and grime, and the big toe of his left foot poked through a hole. She wondered if wives were supposed to keep their husbands in clean, holeless socks. But Billy didn’t seem to care about things like that. He only wanted her. Had only wanted her since the day they met back East.

She positioned herself between the couch and the coffee table, her eyes catching on the strange mug-like clay formation sitting between his wallet and keys. It was gray and looked half-melted and half-formed, like someone had been trying to fashion a coffee mug in a lava pit. It wasn’t exactly the type of thing she would expect an ATF agent working undercover in an outlaw motorcycle gang to bring home from work, but Billy had always been full of surprises.

His long beard was coarse beneath her fingers. She woke him with a kiss. Even before he pulled her down on top of him, she knew he was awake because the snoring had finally ceased. His body was warm beneath hers, his hands roving up and down her back, fingers finding their way beneath her nightgown, cupping her ass. They kissed long and slow, and Gretchen felt the stirring of desire. It was the feeling she had chased all the way across the country.

“You said you wouldn’t fall asleep on the couch,” she whispered as his lips traveled down her neck.

“I’m sorry. Rough night. But I’m almost patched in.”

A thrill of fear ran down Gretchen’s spine. Patched in meant becoming a full, official member of the Devil’s Blade, the outlaw biker gang he’d been undercover with for nearly two years. She’d been worried about it from the day she’d first heard the expression. What if they found him out? The smallest slip in his cover could prove fatal.

“That’s a good thing,” he reminded her, sensing the tension in her body.

“I know,” she said. “But I worry about you.”

“I’m in tight with Linc, Gretch. He won’t forget what I did for him.”

She didn’t point out to him that Lincoln Shore was a criminal, and regardless of the fact that Billy had saved his life, a cop was still a cop, and Linc would kill Billy without hesitation if he found out that Billy was working undercover for the ATF. It was an argument they’d had at least a dozen times, and it wasn’t worth having now, not while his hands caressed her body and his lips probed behind her ear.

Changing the subject, she said, “Nice mug, by the way.”

“What?”

“That… thing. It’s a mug, right? Or it was. What’d you do? Drop it in a deep fryer?”

His hands and mouth stopped moving across her body. In the glow from the television screen, she saw his eyes, confused. She sat up and pointed at the unfinished ceramic piece on the coffee table. He practically threw her off his lap, bolting to his feet.

“Where’s my knife?”

“What?” Gretchen said.

His eyes tracked across the coffee table. Wallet, mug-like thing, keys. He pointed. “My knife was here.”

All Devil’s Blade members—prospects or patches—carried a blade.

“Are you sure you—”

He cut her off. “It was right here.” He turned and looked at her, lowering his voice. “Gretchen, remember when I showed you how to use the Ruger upstairs?”

She nodded, an unpleasant tingle filling her stomach, spreading to her chest.

“Go to the bedroom and get it. Meet me in the foyer. Go fast.”

“Are you sure that’s nece—”

His voice remained quiet but held a firmness that almost sounded panicked. “Just do it,” he told her.

She raced back to their bedroom. The drawer of Billy’s nightstand slid out with a groan. Her fingers scrambled along its undersurface until they found the tiny key. She put it between her teeth and climbed onto the bed. Over the headboard hung a painting they’d bought at a local arts festival. A small wooden boat, floating empty on the still surface of a lake at dusk. As quietly as she could, Gretchen lifted the painting off the wall, gaining access to the built-in wall safe behind it. It took three tries for her trembling fingers to get the tiny key into the lock and open the safe.

The Ruger wasn’t there.

Panic rolled through her, a cold sweat filming her skin. She scrambled back to the living room, pulling up short in the foyer when she saw Billy standing stiffly in the doorway. It took her a moment to realize what was wrong. His hands. They were behind his back. The long barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. Before Gretchen had a chance to focus on the black form beside Billy, the beam of a flashlight blinded her.

A voice she didn’t recognize said, “Hello, Gretchen.”

Billy said, “Run!”