Tara Sivec - Shame on Him

“Could you imagine if I showed up to dinner in this? They would have a heart attack,” I whisper.

“Now all you need are a few tats and a nose piercing,” Paige jokes.

My cheeks immediately redden at her words. A few weeks ago in a moment of complete self-pity and defiance, I got my first tattoo. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my best friends. I was driving home from the courthouse, exhausted and frustrated after a phone call with my father where once again he had asked me what I had done so wrong that the firm hadn’t announced me as partner yet.

The red neon sign for a tattoo shop caught my eye at a red light. When the light turned green, I stepped on the gas, cut across three lanes of traffic, and rushed inside.

It’s Paige’s turn to stare at me with her eyes wide and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God. Lorelei Warner, did you get a tattoo?”

My cell phone beeps loudly on Paige’s side table and I rush over to grab it, rescuing myself from having to explain. It’s a message from Candace with the address for Andrew Jameson.

“I have to go. I just got the address I was waiting for,” I tell Paige as I shove my cell phone into my bag. Before I walk out the door, I quickly grab on to her and give her a hug.

“Thank you for this,” I tell her softly before pulling away.

“It’s just a little makeup and different clothes. It won’t solve this case for you, but it sure as hell will give you some confidence. You look hot. And if you see Dallas, tell him to suck it,” she says with a laugh.

Dallas makes me feel small and insignificant, just like my parents. I don’t care how much he makes my insides flutter—if I never see him again, it will be too soon.

Paige’s voice stops me as I reach her front door. “Oh, and Lorelei, you better tell me all about this tattoo when you’re finished.”

Double-checking the address in Candace’s text and the location on my GPS, I stare at the house I’m parked in front of.

This can’t be the right place. Andrew Jameson was the CEO of Richard’s company. This house, if you can call it that, has boarded-up windows, a lawn that hasn’t been mowed in years, and pieces of blue tarp covering holes in the roof. I reach over to my glove compartment and pull out my Taser, checking to make sure it’s fully charged.

As I step out of my car, I glance around nervously at the neighborhood. I should have borrowed another vehicle to come here. My Mercedes sticks out like a sore thumb and I’m hoping it will be okay and still parked here when I come back outside.

I make my way up the rickety front porch steps and I forget about my car and just hope I’ll be okay when I come back outside.

Knocking on the door, I quickly stash the Taser in my back pocket. This isn’t the best neighborhood, but Andrew lives here and if I want him to answer my questions, I don’t want to offend him right off the bat by showing him I’m carrying a weapon out of nervousness.

The door swings open and a man wearing ripped jeans and a stained sweatshirt stands there glaring at me. His hair is greasy and he’s got the facial hair of a mountain man. This does not look like the former CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company.

“Andrew Jameson?”

The man grunts and brings a can of beer up to his mouth, taking a swig before belching with abandon.

“Who wants to know?”

I clear my throat and remind myself that I’m dressed to kill and get to the bottom of things. I stand up taller and take a deep breath.

“My name is Lori Wagner. I’m writing an article on the recent death of Richard Covington. I understand the two of you were friends and that you used to work together. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

Andrew crushes his empty beer can and tosses it somewhere behind him. “We were never friends. And as far as I’m concerned, that asshole got what was coming to him. I was there from day one. I helped him develop that fucking heart catheter tool, and after he marries that whore, he suddenly decides he doesn’t need me anymore. Every idea I ever came up with while I worked for him, Richard got the credit for. And it was okay with me at the time; I was making good money. Thirty years of my life and all my good ideas I gave him and what’s the thanks I get? A twenty-thousand-dollar severance package. I told him he could take his money and shove it up his ass.”

Well, no wonder he’s living in a hovel. It looks like he hasn’t showered in months. Was his anger with Richard Covington enough to make him commit murder?

“Do you have any idea who could have killed him?” I ask, fishing for answers. I’m sure it’s not going to be as easy as this guy coming right out and confessing, but you never know.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. I hated that lying sack of shit, but I’m not a murderer. Richard wanted me out of the way because I knew all of his little secrets. You want to know who killed Richard Covington? Ask his—”

Andrew’s voice is cut off by erupting gunshots. I feel a pain in my cheek like someone sliced it with a knife and watch Andrew’s eyes widen in shock. My instincts kick into high gear and I immediately dive forward, slamming into Andrew and crashing to the ground on top of him in the doorway. More shots are fired, blowing out all of his windows. Shards of glass and slivers of wood from bullets slamming into the doorframe are raining down on top of us. I roll off of him, and with my head low, crawl as quickly as I can into the house. I glance behind me to make sure Andrew is following and see him still lying in the doorway.

“ANDREW! MOVE!” I scream as I scurry behind the couch and press my back up against it. I reach into my coat pocket for my cell phone and realize I left it back in my car.

After what feels like an eternity, the sound of gunfire stops. I slowly poke my head out from behind the couch and see that Andrew still hasn’t moved. I feel something sticky and wet on the front of me and when I glance down, I see that Paige’s white shirt is covered in blood. Since I’m pretty sure that blood isn’t mine, I know I need to go over and check on Andrew. Swallowing my nausea down, I get back on my hands and knees and inch my way toward him, holding my breath and listening for the sound of a gun going off again.

Right now, all I hear is a ringing in my ears from the gunshots, and my heart thudding loudly. As I get closer to him, I feel shards of glass slicing into my palms and knees, but I ignore the pain. All I’m focused on is the man lying on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Please, not again. I can’t handle two dead bodies in one week.

I eventually make it to Andrew’s side and the first thing I see are several bullet holes in his chest. His sweatshirt is now not only stained with beer and food but his blood as well. It seeps out of the holes in his chest and blooms on the sweatshirt in one giant bloodred circle.

With a shaking hand, I reach out and press two fingers against the side of his neck. I wait for the beat of his heart against my fingers, but nothing happens.

Realizing that my fingers are pressed up against the neck of a dead body, I snatch my hand away and scramble backward until my shoulder hits the wall. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and stare unblinking at the man I was just talking to moments ago.

Someone shot him. Someone shot at me. He was getting ready to tell me something important and was cut off by bullets to the chest before he could finish his sentence. Someone out there must have been following me and they didn’t want Andrew to talk.

This is not good. Not good at all.

Lorelei. Come on, snap out of it, baby. Look at me.”

The voice registers in my brain but it doesn’t make sense. That voice wouldn’t be talking to me this nicely. He’d also never call me “baby.”

I feel warm hands on my face and my head is turned so I’m no longer staring at Andrew Jameson’s dead body. Now I’m staring at a well-muscled chest in a tight blue shirt. My eyes slowly travel up and I see Dallas staring at me with a worried expression, his thumb wiping away at something on my cheek.

“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding. Breathe, Lorelei.”

At his command, I let out a shaky breath and suddenly feel tears pooling in my eyes. I blink rapidly, refusing to let them fall. I don’t know what Dallas is doing here or why he’s being so nice to me, but I will absolutely not fall apart in front of him. That will only give him more ammunition.

Glancing around, I realize it’s gotten dark. The sun was setting when I pulled up to Andrew’s house. I must have been sitting here for a while. I remember sitting against the wall, afraid to go outside in case the shooter was still out there.

Everything comes rushing back at once. Talking to Andrew, a few seconds away from him telling me who killed Richard, and then gunshots. I wasn’t even scared at the time—I must have been moving on pure adrenaline. But now the breaths are leaving my lungs quickly. Too quickly. I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

Dallas turns my face back to him and bends his head lower so he’s looking directly in my eyes. “Don’t look over there. Just look at me. It’s okay. Nice and slow.”

Nice and slow. In and out. Don’t think about the fact that there’s another dead body just a few feet away from me or that Dallas has the most amazing gray eyes I’ve ever seen and they’re currently looking at me with gentle concern instead of irritation.

Dallas slides his hands off of my cheeks and I immediately miss their warmth. He reaches down and grabs both of my wrists, pulling my hands up and inspecting them.