“Yes, well…Melinda’s beside herself. As one would expect.” Melinda was Dick’s wife. His widow.

“I’ll arrange for flowers to be delivered to her at home. And some low maintenance catered meals.”

Archer nodded. “That would be very kind. I’m sure she’d appreciate it. In the meantime, I’m going to send a note to the board sharing the bad news. Melinda wants to have the service on Saturday. She doesn’t want to wait.”

That seemed rather fast, but I guess…maybe that was normal? Or maybe it was the type of decision you made quickly when faced with this situation.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

I stood, legs just as shaky as they had been when I’d entered the room. Except this time for a completely different reason. Death never got easier. It didn’t matter who it was, or how minor a role the person played in your life. Death always had the power to rock us by reminding us of our innate human fragility.

My thoughts from last night about being ninety and lying in my bed regretting the things I’d never done came rushing back. Dick had to have been seventy-five if he’d been a day.

“Vanessa.” Archer’s voice had me pausing at the threshold.

“Yes?”

“Be sure to say a prayer for Herzog, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

I flinched and turned my head as another camera flashed from just beyond Lucas. It was worse than I’d expected. I wanted to be anywhere but here tonight—and not just because I was dreading what would show up in the papers tomorrow.

“You keep ducking, and I’ll arrange for a copy of the society section to be delivered to Con’s doorstep in the morning.”

I glared at Lucas. “I thought you were worried about ending up dead.” Like Herzog, I added to myself.

He flashed a practiced smile in my direction, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Rarely did any of them reach his eyes. But I honestly didn’t care.

“That’s only if he found out about our deal. Seeing the pictures will just get him pissed at you.” He slid an arm around my back.

I hunched forward, trying to lessen the points of contact between our bodies. “Get your arm off me, or I’ll break it myself.” I was not in a mood to be messed with.

Lucas tsked. “Play nice or the deal is off.”

Forcing back the urge to slap him, I smiled and lifted my hand in a polite wave as a state senator nodded my way. Through gritted teeth I said, “I’m tempted to tell you to go screw yourself and tell whoever you want about Con and me.”

“I doubt that, Vanessa. I truly doubt that. You see, I did my research when it came to you. I think I know exactly what that foundation means to you. And what’s more, I think I know what Archer’s and your father’s respect means to you.”

A decidedly unladylike bark of laughter escaped my lips. “And I’m not losing their respect right this minute, standing here with you?”

His expression twisted. “Not as fast as you would if you were standing on a street corner with Leahy.”

I loosened the grip on my champagne flute so I didn’t shatter it. This conversation was completely pointless. I wanted to be home, chin deep in a bubble bath, a glass of wine resting on the edge of the tub.

The remainder of the night was equally pointless. I smiled. Made my flawless small talk. The only bright spot of the evening was meeting a woman who chaired the board of a kids’ sack supper program who had applied for a grant. Hearing about her organization had only reinforced my desire to make certain we allotted funds to as many worthy causes as we were able.

As I climbed into my car, the valet shut the door. I pulled out onto the dark street. It was nearly midnight, and the lack of solid sleep last night and the events of today were catching up with me. Deciding to take the quickest route home, I turned down a side road and slowed at the stoplight.

My head jerked up at a thud against the glass. That crap about time slowing down when something traumatic was happening? It might be true for other people, but it certainly wasn’t for me.

Everything happened so. Damn. Fast.

The butt of a gun connected with my passenger window. The glass shattered. The barrel pointed at my head.

“Get the fuck out of the car, bitch.”

No, time didn’t freeze. But I did.

“Are you fucking deaf? Get the fuck out of the car. Now!”

Not taking my eyes off the gun, I fumbled around, unbuckling my seatbelt and feeling blindly along the door panel for the handle.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

My hand finally connected with the metal, and I yanked on it, flinging the door wide. Instinctively, I reached for my purse, grabbing the strap and dragging it out of the car as I stumbled backward onto the dark street. Wobbling on my heels, I stared as he rounded the hood, the gun still leveled on me. “Throw me the purse.”

Reflexively, my fingers wrapped tighter around the strap of my bag, nails digging into the leather. I knew I should listen. Just throw him the damn purse. But I couldn’t make myself uncurl my hand.

The gun didn’t waver. The traffic signal changed to from green to yellow, and the light glinted off the silver barrel. My entire world shrank to those two impressions: the feel of the leather beneath my fingers, and the changing colors of the traffic light reflecting off the gun.

Yellow flashed to red.

“You stupid, you fucking cunt? I told you to throw the fucking purse here.”

I trembled, feeling just as stupid as he accused me of being. Silently I screamed at my muscles. Lift arm. Throw purse. Just throw the goddamn purse.

He stepped closer. My heart, already hammering at a frenetic pace, kicked up to double time. I fought against the near-paralysis. Inch by inch, muscle twitch by muscle twitch, I forced myself to relax my death-grip.

Okay. Halfway there. Now just throw it.

And then I remembered my phone tucked into the side pocket.

“Hurry the fuck up, I ain’t got all night.”

I found my voice. “The keys are in the car. Just take it.”

His arm bobbed as he replied, “Did I ask you where the fucking keys are, you stupid bitch? They better be in the fucking car, or your brains are going to be splattered all over the goddamn road.”

Fuck the phone. I swung the purse as hard as I could, launching it at his face. He flinched, and I turned and ran.

I vaguely recalled reading once that if someone was shooting at you, you should run and keep your movements erratic because handguns weren’t incredibly accurate. A moving target was always harder to hit. I had no idea why I read that or when, but right now, I was running like a drunk person, heading for the brick building to my left.