The Lies That Bind

34: Godfather Death

Calla's hands smelled like flowers.

Roses and calla lilies, to be precise—a great irony, she mused, inspecting the lines on her palms. With her index finger, she traced the grooves in her skin, following what the Director's wife had once described as her life line.

What a short, shallow thing it was.

Calla curled her fingers into a fist and took a steadying breath, glancing about the mortuary every so often, as if checking for ghosts—and perhaps she was. A ghost in a pretty white dress and a sad, sad smile.

But the mortuary was empty now, the funeral procession Calla had helped orchestrate for the Director having moved on to a cemetery just outside of town. The Director would stay there, with the guests, to make sure everything went smoothly with the burial.

Meanwhile, Calla would stay here, as she'd promised she would, to clean up. And indeed, the reception reeked of cleaning supplies, the sharp bite of chemicals lingering in her nose, chasing away the smell of flowers, the roses and calla lilies she'd so painstakingly laid over that dead girl's coffin only moments before the procession.

Of course, sprucing up the place wasn't the only reason she'd volunteered to stay behind.

Michaels had only agreed to meet her here because he'd shot down her offer to regroup in the park—the same park where she was supposed to be, according to the lie she'd fed the boys. Calla had known Michaels would hate the idea of a public meeting for the same reasons she did.

She wanted this to be over. And one way or another, in less than an hour's time, it would be.

That was when she'd fed him the line about the mortuary—I've got work all day, I won't be able to meet you until later, after the place clears out. He'd taken the bait like a fish downstream, leaping at the opportunity to catch her alone. An empty building. No witnesses.

And so now she waited.

Albeit impatiently. Scowling, Calla checked the time. An hour had already passed since the guests had departed. Cooper and Vincent would be expecting to hear from her, and soon. If they weren't already.

"Come on, Michaels," she murmured, shoving her phone in her back pocket. Seeking whatever small reassurance she could, her fingers brushed the handle of the knife she'd stowed in her other back pocket.

Then, through the curtains—a shadow crept across the front lawn.

Calla released her hold on the knife, automatically reaching for the bracelet at her wrist—but no. She couldn't have him. Not here. Not anymore.

You're going to live a long life, Cooper Daniels. That's a promise.

She only wished she would be around to see it.

Sucking in another breath, Calla positioned herself in front of the staircase—no, the empty fireplace. There. That was better. As good a place to drop dead as any, she supposed, if this plan of hers backfired.

Footsteps on the porch. A heavy, considering pause as whoever it was hesitated on the other side.

No. That wasn't hesitation, she realized, glaring at the hint of a shadow beneath the door. He's gloating.

A heartbeat later, the door swung open on silent hinges.

Michaels stepped over the threshold. "I hope you have what I came here for."

He looked good. Better than good. Self-assured and rested. His silver hair combed into place, clothes pressed, the collar of his coat drawn around his neck, a shield against the cold.