Page 23 of Stone Coast

Grayson moved into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack, and uncorked it. I followed him. He let it breathe for a moment, then poured two samples and swirled them around. He handed a glass to me, and I sniffed the bouquet, then took a sample swig. It tasted great to me. Not too dry, not too sweet. Then again, I had no frame of reference. I gave him a nod of approval, and he filled my glass.

"Just one," he said. "You probably shouldn't overindulge in your current condition.”

"What condition is that?" I asked, growing defensive. I didn’t want to be thought of as diminished in some capacity.

"I'm just saying you should probably ease back into this."

"Was I a big drinker before?"

"I wouldn’t say you were abigdrinker," he said, looking for the right words. By his tone, I gathered I was fond of adult beverages. "But let's just say you weren’t a lightweight."

We paused and stared at each other for a moment.

He lifted his glass. "To having you back."

"To being back," I said.

We clinked glasses, and I took another sip of wine.

"Did I ever talk about my work?" I asked.

"Here and there. Not much. Every now and then, you’d talk about an annoying coworker who’d try to steal clients, or you’d complain about how much traveling you had to do. But for the most part, you left it at the office. That was one of the things we agreed upon. Don't bring problems home. You don't want to hear about the woman with two kids who's dying of blood cancer at 35, and I don’t want to hear about how annoying Bob is."

"Did I seem happy?"

"With your job?"

I nodded.

"I guess," he said, uncertain. "I mean, you were dedicated. Sometimes too much, I thought. I mean, I never wanted to get up in your business, but now that we’re talking about it, you did work a lot. You were gone quite often. It seemed like you bent over backward for those people. And that's fine, but I think they could compensate you a little better than they have been."

"Did I complain about my salary?"

"We never talked about that in particular. Who knows, maybe you’re a bazillionaire, and you’ve got it all socked away somewhere?" He smiled.

The doorbell rang.

Grayson's brow knitted with surprise. "That was fast."

He set his wineglass down, excused himself, then hustled out of the kitchen and made his way across the living room into the foyer.

He pulled open the door and gunshots erupted. The deafening bangs echoed throughout the house.

13

Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and my heart punched my chest. I launched into survival mode, drew my pistol, and crouched low behind the counter in the kitchen. There was no time for fear or panic.

Two masked thugs entered the foyer with Uzis.

Grayson lay on the tile, gasping and gurgling. His torso had been riddled with bullets, and blood seeped onto the tile. He writhed and moaned, fluid filling his lungs.

The sight was mortifying.

One of the thugs knelt down and felt for a pulse.

The other advanced down the foyer into the living room.

They both wore all black, except for their sneakers—MagnumLaunch Pads. Colorful, expensive basketball shoes now speckled with blood.