Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) by Keith Houghton
Authors: Keith Houghton
Tags: Fiction / Thrillers
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murder as leverage. But these were far from normal circumstances.
32
___________________________
Stacey Kellerman had a dilemma. She didn’t believe in God. Or any gods for that matter. In all of her twenty-seven years, religion had never entered her life. She’d never been to church – even for her father’s funeral. Never attended a friend’s wedding. Never given the idea of an afterlife any serious thought whatsoever. She considered herself a realist. Pragmatic. The only faith she’d ever needed was in her own ability to succeed. But she did believe in fate. And therein lay the impasse.
She poured herself a cold merlot from the big black refrigerator dominating the kitchen space in her duplex in Winchester. Then went into the living room, kicked off Pierre Hardy pumps and flopped into an easy chair.
Could fate exist in a world devoid of a grand designer? she wondered, then just as quickly dismissed the thought. The fact that she was here, at this point in her life, on the cusp of a great personal transformation, was testament that it could.
The merlot made her gums tingle.
The wall opposite her was covered with photographs of people she admired: Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, Seymour Hersh, Katherine Graham, a black-framed twelve-by-eight glossy of Stacey shaking hands with Kate Hennessey at a swanky Manhattan bash. Flashes of teeth through false smiles.
Stacey had been highly intoxicated that night. And she guessed it showed. Her hair was slightly mussed. Her make-up slightly askew. Her white Donna Karan shirt buttoned up wrong. She’d given enough head that night to make a lasting impression. You could say, it was networking at its peak.
She dug out her cell phone and hit speed-dial. After three rings a male voice answered:
‘Stacey, I’m busy. What do you want?’
‘An update.’ She said, crisply.
‘I don’t have one. I told you: I’ll call when I know something. It could take days. I’ll call you.’
‘We could do dinner.’ She waited to hear his response, then added into the silence: ‘Or lunch.’
She heard him sigh. Sighs were never a good sign.
‘Stacey, I said I’ll call when I have news. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She said.
‘It could take days.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s Tuesday.’
‘I said okay.’ She paused, then said: ‘Mike, why do I irritate you?’
‘Stacey …’
‘No, really, Mike. Don’t give me the usual bullshit. We were good together. You can’t deny that. We could have done anything. Gone anywhere. What happened to us?’
Another sigh. ‘That’s just it: nothing happened. Do we have to keep going over the same old ground?’
‘Does she make you happy?’
There was a long pause, then: ‘Yes. Yes, she makes me happy. Aren’t you happy for me?’
‘We were happy, too.’ She said through barred teeth. ‘I made you happy, didn’t I? At least that’s what you said. What you led me to believe. We had dreams, Mike.’
‘Stacey …’
‘Just call me.’ She said and hung up.
She dropped the phone onto the soft leather of the chair.
Mike had no idea about fate. About their fate. No up-and-coming junior attorney with fried egg tits could change what they had together. Their destinies were entwined.
She let her eyes roam across the living room: the big projection TV, the stylish black vertical blinds instead of drapes, the cream-colored carpeting and the black leather furniture. Finally, the dark metal urn sitting at the center of the black ash coffee table.
Ten years ago, fate had presented an escape from the clutches of her abusive father. She’d grabbed it by the horns and rode it out of the stadium.
Mike had no idea how powerful fate could be.
Stacey Kellerman slung the merlot down her neck.
33
___________________________
Medication numbs. I’d been numb for months. I didn’t want
32
___________________________
Stacey Kellerman had a dilemma. She didn’t believe in God. Or any gods for that matter. In all of her twenty-seven years, religion had never entered her life. She’d never been to church – even for her father’s funeral. Never attended a friend’s wedding. Never given the idea of an afterlife any serious thought whatsoever. She considered herself a realist. Pragmatic. The only faith she’d ever needed was in her own ability to succeed. But she did believe in fate. And therein lay the impasse.
She poured herself a cold merlot from the big black refrigerator dominating the kitchen space in her duplex in Winchester. Then went into the living room, kicked off Pierre Hardy pumps and flopped into an easy chair.
Could fate exist in a world devoid of a grand designer? she wondered, then just as quickly dismissed the thought. The fact that she was here, at this point in her life, on the cusp of a great personal transformation, was testament that it could.
The merlot made her gums tingle.
The wall opposite her was covered with photographs of people she admired: Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, Seymour Hersh, Katherine Graham, a black-framed twelve-by-eight glossy of Stacey shaking hands with Kate Hennessey at a swanky Manhattan bash. Flashes of teeth through false smiles.
Stacey had been highly intoxicated that night. And she guessed it showed. Her hair was slightly mussed. Her make-up slightly askew. Her white Donna Karan shirt buttoned up wrong. She’d given enough head that night to make a lasting impression. You could say, it was networking at its peak.
She dug out her cell phone and hit speed-dial. After three rings a male voice answered:
‘Stacey, I’m busy. What do you want?’
‘An update.’ She said, crisply.
‘I don’t have one. I told you: I’ll call when I know something. It could take days. I’ll call you.’
‘We could do dinner.’ She waited to hear his response, then added into the silence: ‘Or lunch.’
She heard him sigh. Sighs were never a good sign.
‘Stacey, I said I’ll call when I have news. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She said.
‘It could take days.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s Tuesday.’
‘I said okay.’ She paused, then said: ‘Mike, why do I irritate you?’
‘Stacey …’
‘No, really, Mike. Don’t give me the usual bullshit. We were good together. You can’t deny that. We could have done anything. Gone anywhere. What happened to us?’
Another sigh. ‘That’s just it: nothing happened. Do we have to keep going over the same old ground?’
‘Does she make you happy?’
There was a long pause, then: ‘Yes. Yes, she makes me happy. Aren’t you happy for me?’
‘We were happy, too.’ She said through barred teeth. ‘I made you happy, didn’t I? At least that’s what you said. What you led me to believe. We had dreams, Mike.’
‘Stacey …’
‘Just call me.’ She said and hung up.
She dropped the phone onto the soft leather of the chair.
Mike had no idea about fate. About their fate. No up-and-coming junior attorney with fried egg tits could change what they had together. Their destinies were entwined.
She let her eyes roam across the living room: the big projection TV, the stylish black vertical blinds instead of drapes, the cream-colored carpeting and the black leather furniture. Finally, the dark metal urn sitting at the center of the black ash coffee table.
Ten years ago, fate had presented an escape from the clutches of her abusive father. She’d grabbed it by the horns and rode it out of the stadium.
Mike had no idea how powerful fate could be.
Stacey Kellerman slung the merlot down her neck.
33
___________________________
Medication numbs. I’d been numb for months. I didn’t want
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