“The Sister”
a novel by Richard Shaw … enjoy the sample below
The woman hiked her right leg out the bathroom window and kicked off the black, red-soled stiletto shoe, scattering pebbles on the walkway below.
Shit!
She was athletic and limber, but the window was narrow and pulling her left leg through was awkward. After almost falling backwards, she sat on the edge of the windowsill, like a child on a swing waiting for a push. Her black leather miniskirt was bunched high above the lacy elastic tops of her heather-gray stockings.
At least you aren’t flashing your panties, she thought as she flicked the other five-inch heel to the ground. Yet.
She braced her left hand on the ledge next to her slim hips. Her right hand took the sparkly, gray clutch from between her teeth and held it in front of her chest. She pushed off with her left hand, kicked her feet forward and landed awkwardly in the spring night.
The pebbles that bordered the entire 6,500-square-foot house jarred cold and hard under her stockinged feet. For balance, her left hand found the house’s stucco exterior wall. The momentum from her jump propelled her into a graceless half-circle that left her facing the house.Her silk blouse was a deep garnet with pearl buttons open to just above her cleavage. With that jump, it was also now completely untucked from her skirt, which more or less still covered her underwear. She didn't bother to pull her skirt down. Instead, she sank into a low crouch and tried to coerce her breathing to just below panic.
Stuck the landing!
The moon was early in its phase and had long since departed, leaving a generous helping of stars in its wake, powdered sugar over a dense chocolate cake. From the front of the twelve-bedroom house, about two hundred feet to her right and around the corner, shone the muted white of several outdoor floodlights. The lights were mounted on faux-aged black aluminum and aimed directly at the ground to minimize light pollution. People who owned houses like this in Park City cared about their view, both the vistas and the vastness of space. The woman’s dark blue Mercedes S-Class coupe was parked next to one of those posts. She had left it in the circular driveway, along with a dozen other cars, all of which belonged to Tomaz and his men.
The woman adjusted her grip on the clutch as she stepped off the bony stones and onto the close-cut grass. Her left big toe and right heel felt colder and wetter than the rest of her feet.
Tore my stockings. Very naughty girl tonight!
Crouching, she hurried toward the front of the house. She did not make great time. She did, however, manage to find the zipper along one side of her clutch. Using the first two fingers of her left hand, she unzipped it just enough to fish out the key fob for her car. Her cell phone threatened an escape, but she slowed her crab dash and re-zipped the mini purse, securing the phone, along with her driver’s license, two credit cards, and $500 in cash.
The woman stopped at the corner of the house, just outside the circle of light, and peeked around. After their fight and everything that Tomaz had accused her of, she expected to see at least two of his men out front. Maybe as many as a half-dozen. As best as she could tell, though, she was alone.
She glanced at her watch. It was 3:07 a.m.
It’s only been five minutes, she thought. I won’t be alone for long.
She sprinted to the closest vehicle, an expensive, silver Ford pickup truck, and skidded into its shadow. No opening doors. No shouts. Only the hoot of an owl.
Not really alone, I guess.
The woman jumped to the hidden side of another oversized pickup, and then behind a black Range Rover. Her Mercedes was next in this game of life-or-death leap-frog.
She heard the distinct chime of the house’s security alarm announce that a door had opened.
Must be the front door if I can hear it.
She was fifty yards from the front door and ten feet from her car.
Might as well be from here to the moon.
She ducked further into the Range Rover’s shadow.
You’re fine, she told herself. They can’t see you.
She wasn’t fine. Maybe she was hidden from sight but her breathing was ragged and loud. Her heart was racing. Every time she shifted her weight, she was sure that whoever had opened the door could hear her as clearly as a dropped wine glass on ceramic tile.
Concentrate! You will not freak out!
She could hear a man talking. Another man answered. She couldn’t identify the owner of either voice but their tones were relaxed, lacking urgency.
Maybe they aren’t looking for you yet. Maybe they still think you're in the bathroom. Just stay calm and you'll be fine.
A sudden realization struck her: she would be fine as long as they didn’t get in their cars and drive away.
The trickster inside her head, the one who had gotten her into trouble throughout her life, almost gave away her hiding spot. Instead of just thinking get in their cars and drive, her mind sang it, copying the cadence and the melody from a line at the end of the Queen song, “Fat Bottomed Girls.”
The woman swallowed a giggle as the trouble-maker decided to sing the song from the beginning. Her impression of Freddie Mercury punched the opening line inside her brain:
“Are you gonna take me home tonight?”
Stop it, she ordered.
“Down beside that red firelight?”
To refocus her brain and shut down, the woman peeked around the front of the Range Rover.
“Are you gonna let it all hang out?”
She could see the two men from Tomaz's armed entourage. They were smoking, definitely not allowed indoors by people who owned houses like this in Park City. One man stood on the pavers at the bottom of the brick risers a worn cowboy boot covered by black denim perched on the second step. That was Juan. The other man was a few feet to the side, next to the landscaping. The upper half of his body was hidden by her Mercedes. He also wore cowboy boots, though his were covered by new blue jeans.
Probably, Jose.
Those two were among Tomaz’s most-trusted men.
She turned away from the house and looked at her watch: 3:11 a.m.
Shit! Almost ten minutes. Th—
She heard the security alarm chime again, mercifully interrupting the maddening cover song the trickster continued to play in her mind. The woman counted five quick breaths and peeked out. The men were going back inside, the door closing by itself behind them.
How long do I wait?
Even as she formed this question, another part of her had already decided. She skittered on hands and toes out of the relative safety of the shadows, toward her car.
She reached the driver’s side. Thankfully, she had not locked the door. People who owned houses like this in Park City prided themselves on not needing to lock their cars at night. She lifted the handle and paused to gather her feet fully under her. She opened the door, pulling it toward her and slipping through the smallest of openings. The dome light slowly brightened, but it took three seconds to reach peak brightness. She was in her seat with the door silently closed behind her in less than two.
The woman found the headlight control and spun the dial backward from “Auto” to “Off.” As safe as she could think to be, she started the car and began to roll down the long driveway. She would turn on the headlights once she reached the street. Rent-a-cops in the Dutch Draw neighborhood were always on the lookout for an excuse to prove their worth, much more so than Park City’s actual police.
She looked at her watch: 3:13 a.m.
They have to know you’re running by now, she thought. But you can’t speed. Can’t let good ol’ Barney Fife stop you.
Not only would it slow her down, they all knew Tomaz