The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 23

One down, one more to go?

Leaving the dead man in her garden, the .22 still pressed to her flank, Grace eased her way out of the gate. Expecting another nasty surprise; this time she’d be ready.

The street was empty.

Again, she walked west — away from the Chrysler — rounded the corner and passed the front of the cottage and was sure no one was lurking there before continuing to the nearest corner where she turned right.

It took a while to reposition herself half a block behind the boxy sedan.

Feeling a visceral sense of purpose, muscular and savage, that she’d never experienced before.

Maybe the gravity of what she’d done — the ending of a human life — would rebound on her but at this moment to hell with the bastard who may have ended Andrew’s life.

With his fat friend.

She was alive.

Now I’m more than a murderer’s daughter.

She slinked closer to the Chrysler, knew black glass could conceal anything but continued anyway and got right up against the car’s rear bumper. Gun in hand, she kicked the rear bumper softly.

No response.

Her second kick was harder. The vehicle remained the stolid inanimate object it was.

Crouching low, she scurried to the front passenger window, pointed the Beretta at the glass. Rapped the window hard with her knuckles.

Silence.

She tried the door. Locked. Same for the driver’s side.

If Beefy was in there, he’d have reacted. She retreated and waited anyway. Ten minutes, twenty thirty forty.

The car sat there.

So tonight had been a one-man mission. Maybe Beef had been injured when she’d run him into the berm.

Or he was fine and the two of them simply figured Grace an easy victim.

Invade her space, search her records, and if Mr. Average Size was lucky enough to find her, gut her and slit her throat and dump her in a dingy, demeaning place.

Best-laid plans.

Now he was no-man.