The Good Kind of Bad (45 page)

I recalled the pain after I was thrown from the car, saw the rage in Evan’s eyes when he fired the gun. I’d watched Joe’s smirk grow, saw him reach for Charlie, heard the gunshot. It had happened. Joe had died the night of the Fourth of July, his demise since infecting every thought, every regret . . . like the deadly Ebola virus it had twisted and crept its way into my nervous system until it, he, was under my skin, until the cops discovering his body had become a tangible threat, but it was a lie. It had all been a lie. Air filled his lungs. He wasn’t rotting in the shallow grave among the fallen branches of the wood. He was awake. Joe Petrozzi, my husband, was alive.

The air grew icy after the sun sank below the water and I was enveloped by the darkness, the pretty skyline of the dead city nothing but a distant star. The predicted coldest August for fifty years was living up to the hype – with my bloodied hand clutching my lapels together, I was struggling to keep the warmth for myself.

The truth was not what I’d prepared for. Joe and Evan’s first encounter was not the night of Joe’s
supposed
murder, in the car garage after he’d
supposedly
trailed us. They were well acquainted, friends even. If this whole time they knew each other, and now Evan was paying Joe off, I was beginning to realise why. It was a set-up, a con – one I’d fallen hook, line and sinker for. It meant Evan knew Joe would attack me. It meant Evan didn’t find me bleeding on the street, he’d been waiting for me. It meant I’d been lured into that parking garage. Nothing about my life in Chicago had been real. Evan’s concern over Joe, the chance meetings, the park, Bemo’s,
Faith
. . . my whole life had been a lie, a lie I’d believed, though whatever the truth, I’d seen enough.

This city was not my home. No invented sense of belonging or lavishly packaged dreams could change my reality now. My marriage had been a joke from day one, Nina was dead, Joe was alive, and now I was running for my life from a devious and calculating criminal.

Now I’d emerged from behind my Angel Dust shadow, my instincts had to do the same. I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, I didn’t belong in Chicago the way I once had. It was time to admit defeat, pack my bags and escape while I could, and while there was still a chance of making it out alive.

My muscles burned and my feet stung with each step from the shoreline, walking the park with only the moonlight for company. My steps were soft on the grass, like I was invisible, like if I wished hard enough, I could be anywhere else but here.

When I came to the railway tracks at South Exchange, some string vest-wearing guy with a breath full of whisky appeared from behind a boarded-up house, asking which party I was headed to. I managed to avoid eye contact, until he grabbed my arm.

‘Don’t be like that, Mira.’

I snatched my elbow out of his grubby palm. ‘Get off me! I’m not Mira.’

‘Didn’t mean to upset you, Mira,’ he slurred, staggering backwards. ‘What happened to your hand? Did Jarrick do that? Skinny white girls shouldn’t be out here by themselves. Lot of nuts-o people around.’

Is this how it’d end? Pushed under a train by some drunk on the South Shore?

He approached again, but staggered backwards to avoid the car slamming to a halt in front of us.

The driver wound down his window and popped his head out. ‘Don’t you answer your phone, darlin’?’

It was Marv. Thank god, it was Marv.

Riding back to the city from the safety of Marv’s back seat, my head rolled to the window. The highway lights sprinkled generously up ahead like fairy dust, like even in the darkest corner of the city, of my life, it would never be dark.

When Marv asked where to take me, there was only one answer. I could’ve asked for the police station, to recount the elaborate story of Joe’s faked death and Evan’s underground alias as a drug-toting psychopath, of my father’s stolen millions he’d tried to siphon. Or I could run, while I still had the chance. I had no proof. It was all back at the apartment. However much I
wanted
Evan strapped up to two thousand volts, I’d now be lucky to escape with my life.

Watching the planes circle and land from the observation lounge at O’Hare, I remembered walking through this airport once upon a time, in search of a new life beyond the doors, to escape Will and his suffocating control.

Laughable didn’t come close. All Will had done was provide for me. Suggesting I wear the purple instead of the green wasn’t dominance. Control was being drugged, beaten and hated; control was the life I’d granted myself permission to leave.

That reckless girl circa three months ago with the undeserved spring in her step was insouciant, dangerous and naive. The pre-Joe-slash-Evan vision travelled the floor, the Tumi suitcase towed behind. A bottle of Southern Comfort rattled inside, the wedding dress torn into a thousand threads of silk and doused in bourbon to boot.

My actions had no consequences. There was no betrayal of two families gathered in an Appleford church, awaiting a bride already thousands of miles behind them. In time they’d empathise with my decision and appreciate the palpable distress of marrying a man I didn’t love. One day they’d understand
my
happiness surpassed that of all others, all because I’d wanted a squeeze of danger and a dash of excitement. Life couldn’t be good until I’d tasted the bad.

I bowed my head, cowering at the memory. Humility struck. Without my vitriol for Will and my mother, I never would have boarded the plane, stood at Galvin’s already wildly intoxicated, let the cute guy named Joe buy me five Bacardi and cokes and accepted the drunken marriage proposal idly flung my way.

I tried consoling myself. There was misguided innocence in my actions, first about Joe and then Evan. Blind acceptance was my only preserve, though that the events of the past were beyond my control was the more bitter pill to swallow.

Evan could have it, my suitcase of dresses, trinkets and shoes. It meant nothing to me now.

I’d sewn an extra pocket into my jacket lining on Tuesday, after my fog cleared from the pills. In it I’d stashed my US passport, driver’s license, credit cards, around five thousand dollars, a toothbrush, comb and lipstick. I’d covered all eventualities, on the off chance I discovered my once-dead husband was back to breathing, and that a police officer supposed to protect me was willing to kill me for money he didn’t know I had. You know, that kind of thing.

Though one thing was certain: this city would soon be forgotten, along with its secrets. I was free – of Joe, Evan, the drugs,
and
my death sentence. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I didn’t have to feel guilty anymore. Joe wasn’t dead, Evan didn’t kill him, and I wasn’t going to jail. Nina’s murder still played on my conscience, but I knew it was time. Time to go home.

After messaging Cherry asking if she could swing by the Doggy Depot, to look after Sybil until I could arrange her a doggy passport, I headed off to locate the ticket sales desk, though took a detour to the bathroom. I could have my old room back, spend some time bonding with the ’rents. Who knows, maybe Mother would grow to like me again, now I was crawling home and she could land a big, fat ‘I told you so’ on my shoulders.

Whatever lay ahead, at least now I knew. I’d never have to look back over my shoulder.

I reached the door for the ladies’, though soon felt the uncomfortable closeness of someone behind me. Moving aside didn’t help, my steps were simply matched. Before I knew what was happening, a gloved hand clamped over my mouth and an arm snaked around my neck as I was sent hurtling through the bathroom door, rushing for the row of porcelain sinks ahead.

Inside the bathroom, a lady in a New York Mets sweater was splashing her face with water.

‘Get out!’ my attacker bellowed at her.

Before I could plead for help, she’d already grabbed her holdall, bowed her head and rushed out. A hand was now jabbing at my back as I shuffled forward in an unnatural movement, my lower body hitting the sink bowl while my middle bent over. I tried to scream as he grabbed a fistful of hair, but nothing came out. My windpipe stuttered under the pressure, shouts of pain through gloved fingers little more than stifled groans.

In the mirror my captor loomed, sporting a deep-blue suit, gold-flecked tie and black beanie hat. ‘When I take my hand away, you won’t scream. I can’t be held responsible for what’ll happen if you do.’

He removed his hand and I breathed freely, remaining bent over the sinks now only to catch my breath.

‘You fu . . .’ I managed, holding the sides of the washbasin.

‘Watch your mouth, bitch. This is a family feature,’ Evan said, addressing my reflection. Folding his arms, he took a step back while I grabbed at my throat.

‘How did . . .’

‘Come on, of course I found you. Where else would you go but home? Though honestly, who goes on vacation and doesn’t pack their passport?’ There was my UK passport, waving idly in his hand. ‘You’ve been looking for it, right?’

‘Only since I moved into your apartment.’ I coughed, still massaging my throat.

‘I couldn’t let you leave. I just couldn’t find your US one. You obviously hid it well.’

‘I don’t have a US passport.’

‘Dual nationality. That’s what you told me when you reported Joe’s abuse. And if I had your
only
passport, how were you planning to get home? A leisurely swim across the Atlantic?’ Evan jumped forwards and, with a quick elbow in my face, he tore at my jacket. ‘You haven’t let it out of your sight. You’ve had it with you the whole goddamn time.’ It didn’t take him long to retrieve my one chance at freedom from the inside lining. At least he didn’t find the money.

I dared to look him right in the eyes. ‘Give it back.’

‘You’re giving
me
orders now, miss I’m-too-delusional-to-get-out-of-bed? How long have you known about my drugging experiment? Except you know a little more than that.’

I looked away. ‘Who are you?’ I asked through clenched teeth.

He cocked his head to the side. ‘But I’m Evan. Loveable, saviour, all-round good guy Evan.’

‘I thought I was supposed to be the one on Angel Dust.’

He edged forward, patting his jacket. ‘Keep talking, honey. I’m dying to shoot you in the head.’

‘What, in the middle of one of the busiest airports in the world? You wouldn’t make it out alive.’

‘Who said anything about here? And I shot Joe, didn’t I? You think I don’t have the balls?’

‘You didn’t shoot Joe. He works for you.’

‘Well, that’s the ten-million-dollar question, isn’t it?’ Evan drew back his jacket to reveal his shoulder-holstered gun. ‘You’re walking out of this airport with me.’

‘I’ll scream.’

‘No. You won’t.’

We emerged from the bathroom, shuffling across the floor like a pantomime horse. Evan stood behind me with a hand on my shoulder and the gun barrel tickling my back. As he forced the weapon deeper into my spine, I felt nothing short of sick.

‘Try anything and I’ll kill you in front of everyone,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘I don’t care what happens to me but I think you value your life higher than death or prison, my Cute Little Rich Bitch.’

‘And is that part of the plan?’

‘Just keep walking.’

In the vast departure hall we were consistently ignored. Even with the late hour, the desks for flights to Miami, Tucson and Vegas were oversubscribed. I stared at the blank faces, hoping someone would catch my eye, searching for the Mets lady and trusting she’d raised the alarm. It was hopeless. We were invisible. We were just another couple, trying to get home.

One final push, and we were out through the revolving doors.

‘Get in the car,’ he grunted, the gun no longer hidden.

I was pushed toward a large black car parked in the loading zone. The memories floated back, of Joe sunbathing on his bonnet wearing an achingly cool smile.

‘Get the hell in!’

I climbed onto the back seat, shaking inside but with an intact outer shell. In unrivalled fear, I backed up against the door, discretely tugging the handle, but Evan had already climbed in behind and deadlocked the vehicle. Retrieving a black cable tie from a bunch in the driver’s seat pocket, he reached for my wrists as my shoulder smacked the door armrest.

‘Get off me!’ I screamed while struggling over the seat, kicking at his legs. ‘Evan, what are you doing?’ My hands turned white as he yanked on the cable tie to bind my wrists.

Visibly unnerved, he peered out through the tinted windows. ‘God damn, quit screaming! Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tape it up. How’d you like that?’

I continued to fight and struggle as Evan grasped his woollen hat and pulled it over my face. The whole world turned black.

‘Evan!’ I screamed, thrashing over the seats and blindly kicking at the doors.

Then I heard the engine turn over as the vehicle roared to life.

‘You don’t mind if I punch you in the head, do you? Just to stop you screa . . .’

Opening my eyes, the darkness remained.