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It was the one positive thing Gordon White Eagle had ever done for him. The sensory deprivation therapy had indeed worked.

Gordon White Eagle would have reminded him of that, had he been alive.

May he rest in peace.

A blonde from
Entertainment Tonight
was color commenting on the red carpet, buttonholing actors male and female and asking, “Who are you wearing?” The Hollywood stars made small talk with the interviewers, posed for the cameras, and moved on.

“Maybe we’ll see Dave,” Max said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. He asked if he could give it a shot, and I said sure.”

“But that’s—”

“What? Fraud?”

“I don’t know what it is,” said Tess. “You’re not up for anything this year?”

“The crap I’ve been in? No. Vampire epics don’t get you Oscar nominations.”

“So it’s no big deal? He just does a quick interview on the red carpet and sits in the audience.”

“Listen.”

The young blonde interviewer cried out, “It’s Max Conroy! Max, you’re looking
great
.”

“Thanks. I’m feeling great.” Dave had his chin tucked into his neck and was careful not to look head-on into the cameras. But Max thought that unnecessary. He really
did
look like Max Conroy.

More than
I
do.

“I bet you’re happy to be back here, after everything that happened. Even if you weren’t nominated this year.”

“It’s good to be alive,” Dave quipped.

“Well, enjoy the show!”

“I will.”

He walked farther up the red carpet, then out of the shot.

“I still don’t know why you let him do that,” Tess said. “What a glory hound.”

“He thought he could pull it off. It’s kind of a high-wire act, but I think he did.”

Suddenly, there was a loud bang. It came from inside the television, from offscreen, but dust and debris filtered back, and the video went haywire.

There were screams.

Fractured video. Blackness.

Then. . .

The feed was restored. Dust everywhere. People and debris scattered. The blonde who had interviewed the actors on the red carpet cried out, “Who was it? Who was it?”

Max and Tess stayed in the bar.

The bartender turned to cable news.

It took them twenty minutes to play the tape in full. But Max was patient.

It showed Dave Finley as Max Conroy walking up the red carpet. Suddenly, a woman wearing a tuxedo darted onto the carpet and grabbed Conroy, hugging him to her chest. There was something—a bubble of some sort—strapped tightly to her body.

It would turn out to be a suicide bomb.

They fell to the carpet—
pressed
into the carpet. Some people ran toward them, some pulled back, some stayed where they were, shocked.

Fortunately, most of the concussion from the explosion discharged into the red carpet—into the floor.

Two people in the crowd were killed instantly. Many others were injured, mostly by flying body parts and shrapnel from the bomb.

It was amazing that so few were seriously injured.

The man known as Max Conroy, and his attacker, were killed instantly.

T
ESS WAS QUIET
. Max felt sick inside. They left the bar and walked on the beach, this time with the full moon over their shoulders. Warm down here in the subtropics, even in February. The waves came in. Endless waves, washing onto this beach, and onto the beach far north of here—in LA.

Max had suspected that Shaun wouldn’t give up. He’d suspected she was going to try again. He’d gone as far as to hire a security firm.

But you didn’t hire one for Dave.

How could he have known what would happen?

He didn’t.

That could have been me, Max thought.

Instead, it was Dave Finley.

“You knew,” Tess said.

“No. I didn’t.”

Tess stared at him.

“I thought at some point she would get to me. I never imagined she’d do it on the red carpet at the Oscars.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

She held his gaze. There was still a question in her eyes. He didn’t blame her. It looked bad.

Either she would believe he was the kind of man who would set his best friend up to be killed in his place, or she would not. He knew he couldn’t sway her—she was too smart for that.

Abruptly, he thought of their motorcycle shop, and the realization finally came home. His best friend of almost twenty years was dead. He thought of all the adventures they’d had, how they’d grown up together. The many times Dave had had his back.

Now Dave was dead in his place. And he was culpable.

Tess said, “That woman. She was like a mother bear. You killed her cub. You never get between a bear and her cub.”

“Wish I’d known that.”

“She would never have given up until she got you.”

“She got me.”

“No. She got Dave.” Tess crossed her arms and stared out at the ocean. “You realize what this means?”

“What this means?” Max asked.

“Yes, what this means.”

Tess was beautiful. He didn’t know where this would go, but he hoped, whatever happened going forward, his life would include her. The breeze lifted a strand of her hair (at least here, she didn’t wear it in a neat bun) and he reached over and pushed it away from her face. She stared into his eyes, defiant. “You’ll have to go back. There’ll be an investigation and the police will want to talk to you.”

He knew she was right—there were plenty of loose ends. But he would no longer have to look over his shoulder, thinking that at any time Shaun would jump out of the shadows, intent on killing him.

Dave took care of that, didn’t he?
The voice inside his head told him—the voice he knew he would be living with for the rest of his life.

Tess said, “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know.” But that wasn’t entirely true. He wanted to continue his acting career. He’d lost track of that over the past few years, drowning his troubles in drink and drugs, but he was stronger now. It was as if he’d been given a second chance.

The strand of Tess’s hair came loose again. He reached over and pushed it behind her ear once more.

She said, “You know this—”

“Shhh.” He touched a finger to her lips. But he knew what she’d been about to say, that it wouldn’t work. He would go back to his old life, and Tess McCrae would stay a cop. They belonged to different worlds.

“We can still see each other,” he said. Painfully aware of the urgency in his voice.

She looked away.

Max said, “Long-distance relationships do work. We could try it out and see—”

“I guess we could try,” she said. But there was enough doubt in her voice to sink a battleship.

He pulled her in to him. As they kissed, he could feel the beating of her heart.

Max closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment. Yes, he thought. They could try.

THE END

About the Author

Photograph by Ian Galley, 2011

J. C
ARSON
B
LACK IS
the best-selling, critically acclaimed author of eight books, including the Laura Cardinal crime fiction series. Born and raised in Tucson, Arizona, Black has found inspiration for her writing in everything from real-life horrors to the headlines screaming today’s news. She is currently working on her next thriller.