Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

couldn’t say. Maybe the woman cherished their memories in private. Somehow, Dominique doubted that. No one who unceremoniously dumped photographs of their relatives to make space for countless projections of their own image was anything other than a cold-hearted narcissist in her estimation.

Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. Dominique wondered what effect Nana might have had on Trin if she’d gone to live with her at the age of four, as Dominique had. Funny that the woman was clearing out the house, yet keeping her shrine intact. Maybe Trin was selling the property. Naturally, Gary would be the last to know.

Dominique continued down the hall to the master bedroom. It was missing some of its clutter, which was for the best, but it had lost a mesmerizing portrait by George Romney. That left Dominique momentarily forlorn, because the eighteenth-century lady in it had been the most cheerful thing in the house. At least the great-canopied bed still occupied the middle of the room. She set her bag on the tufted lavender silk bedspread and shrugged off her jacket.

She’d decided, well in advance, no matter what Gary said or did—and regardless what promises he made this time—there was no going back. Even so, his words about Mexico unnerved her. This whole plan might be dead, she realized. Gary had revealed that story about being held for ransom not long after they’d met, but he’d always treated it as a subject for mockery. Gary ridiculed everything around him, so that wasn’t out of character. It was a trait that sometimes made Dominique wonder about his head. Who joked about being kidnapped? The man was a little too cool for his own well-being. Maybe that was why he had no trouble being a cheat and a liar, she thought. The irony wasn’t lost on her: there she was, mistress of a married man, lit up with fury because that man was stepping out on her. What a fool she’d been. The shame and humiliation still burned inside her like a flame.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. There was Nana’s voice again, pressing on her like a weight from above. Today, Nana’s ghost was on her case just like Nana herself had been when Dominique was a teenager. She pushed her away, but that cracked a door for the memory of her father to slip in. Dominique didn’t remember him that well. Mostly, she had sensory images of warmth and rough skin that smelled of soap and lullabies sung in his deep baritone. She could recall standing on his polished shoes as he danced her around their living room. But those flashbacks only made her heart flutter in her throat. She missed him so. She had to push his memory away, too.

I’m really doing this. It’s not just talk anymore. This isn’t a fantasy. She fumbled with the recorder with shaking hands, then dropped it. It bounced on the floor and she grabbed it, furious with herself for turning into a schoolgirl with a crush. What, one sweet word from Gary and you’re ready to swoon? she chided herself. She heard the front door open and shut and looked out the window. Had Gary wandered outside? The muscle relaxant was supposed to be a bit of a trip, enough to oil up his brain and tongue to pliable looseness, but not so much as to knock him out or actually incapacitate him. She didn’t see him, and her mind was suddenly flooded with worry.

She rushed along the hallway and down the stairs, clutching the recorder and concerned Gary might hurt himself. In the living room, she stopped dead. Gary was perched on the sofa, staring at the fire with the curious intensity of a child. Behind him stood a tall man with a balaclava pulled over his face. He was holding a gun, and it was pointed at Dominique.

Chapter 3

The man stared at her, unblinking. He was six three, her brother’s height, with broad shoulders and a thick neck that had a gold bird with two heads hanging on a chain around it. The only skin she saw was a pasty white ring around the mask’s small eyeholes. His pale blue irises were cold enough to be chipped from ice. He looked like a modern Viking in black leather and denim, a distressed duffle bag at his feet. “Get on the floor,” he hissed.

“Who the hell are you?” Dominique demanded. Then she noticed a second figure cloaked in black, behind the tall man. This one was only five nine or so, wrapped in a leather trench coat that looked like a costume from The Matrix. The head was disturbingly insectlike, covered in a black balaclava with no eyeholes at all; instead, there were big, bulging patches of black mesh where the eyes should have been. The hands were encased in black gloves and one was holding a gun. For a split second, Dominique wondered if it was a person or a giant bug.

“What do you want?” Dominique asked. “My bag is upstairs. My money is—”

“Shut up.” There was no life swimming behind the Viking’s eyes. “Lie on the rug. Facedown.”

Gary chose that moment to look over his shoulder, and his expression was a vague mix of surprise and delight. “Hello, Max.” His voice was cheerful and hearty, as if greeting an old friend.

Max? Dominique thought. How much muscle relaxant did I give him? How far gone is he? There had been a doorman at Gary’s condo named Max. He was a head shorter than the Viking with the gun and his skin was just a couple of shades lighter than the balaclava the man was wearing. If Gary was mistaking this white freak for Max, she’d screwed up badly with the drug. Even the second assailant, the Bug, seemed baffled. Its insectile head swiveled from Gary to the Viking and back, as if a Ping-Pong ball were bouncing between them.

The Viking glared at Gary, frigid eyes narrowed to slits. “Your phone?” he