83
Vicky
Gavin walks me halfway down the alley and pushes me into a gangway, dark and empty. He shoves me up against a fence next to a dumpster that shields us from view.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he says, pressing the gun under my chin, just like I did to Christian.
I close my eyes, shake my head.
“Yes, you do. Tell me or we say goodbye right here. Another streetwalking skank murdered in the city.” He brings his face close to mine. “Fucking tell me.”
“You’re... Gavin Finley,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“And Christian?” he demands.
“Nick Caracci.”
“Okay, so you did your homework, Vicky Lanier. Vicky Lanier from Fairmont, West Virginia, right? Ran away from home back in 2003?”
I don’t say anything.
“Which is weird,” he goes on, “because a couple months ago, they found the skeleton of a girl by that name buried in some mountain in West Virginia.”
He knows. He looked me up. But... that means Nick knew and didn’t—
“Nick researched you but didn’t update it,” he says. “Me, I just learned your name, so I did my due diligence and read all about the recent discovery of Vicky Lanier from Fairmont, West Virginia, who disappeared in 2003. Maybe I should’ve told him, but Nick, he was so hell-bent on his plan, Ifigured it was worth a shot. But I thought you might fuck him over, too. And look at that, you did.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know whattosay. Ever since the real Vicky Lanier’s body was found, I worried this day might come.
I have to get away from Gavin. Just get out of here alive—
“You’re a smart lady, Vicky,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Nick’s dead, Simon’s going to be under investigation for the murder of Lauren Betancourt, probably sitting in jail without bond for murder, and when the moment is right, you’re going to run off with all the money. Am I right?”
He knows about the trust. He knows about Simon. He knows everything.
Well, not everything.
I didn’t close the blinds upstairs before I killed Nick. I meant to. My nerves got the better of me. Gavin must have been watching across the street, whatever he was able to see through the open blinds. He knows I killed his friend.
Don’t answer him. Don’t say anything. Just—
He shoves the gun harder under my chin, pushing the top of my head into the wired fence. “Am I right?” he repeats.
“Yes, you’re right,” I say. Pulse pounding, thinking fast, coming up with nothing butGet away from him.
“I wonder how Simon would take all this,” he says. “He thinks he married someone named Vicky Lanier, with a nice, clean background. I’m guessing you had some reason to use a fake name. A criminal record, maybe? Prostitution? Maybe something worse? A wealthy guy like Simon’s not gonna go for some street whore like you. So you cleaned yourself up and gave yourself a nice, new identity with a spotless background.”
“Yes,” I say, because my head can’t be pushed any harder into this wired fence.
There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have any leverage to fight back, try to break away, while pinned against this fence with a gun under my chin. Anything I try will probably make that gun go off.
“Tell me your real name, Vicky,” he says.
Oh, thank God—he doesn’t know my real name. He didn’t get that far. He doesn’t have my fingerprints.
I can’t let that happen. I can’t ever let Gavin know my real identity. I’ll die right here before I let that happen.
“Tell me, you stupid twat.” He removes the gun from under my chin and smacks me across the cheek with his other hand. Then he pushes me back against the fence and presses the gun against my forehead. “Tell me right now or you’re—”