Next to Die by Marliss Melton

was to pass out cold tonight. That way he wouldn’t dream.

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    Having flown into Orlando, where he rented a car, Joe did not arrive at the oceanfront city of Daytona until dusk. At the thought of facing Nikko’s widow, his stomach churned. The sweat dampening his shirt was more a result of his dread than of the muggy weather.
    Two miles from the oceanfront, he turned into a neighborhood of modest ramblers. The two young boys playing Wiffle ball in the street were Nikko’s. They had the same dark hair and olive complexion as their Greek-American father. With dread pooling in his limbs, Joe parked along the curb several yards away and watched.
    He tried to step out of the car, but he couldn’t.
    The sinking sun washed the sky in hues of violet. The brothers were close in size, maybe six and eight years old. Ignoring their lengthening shadows, they took turns swinging at the plastic ball while a fruit bat darted overhead.
    Nikko would never play with them again.
    Just get out of the car, Joe. Get it over with.
    He turned the ignition off and cracked the door. He was about to push to his feet when the porch light blinked on and a dark-haired woman emerged. “Alex and Marcus, it’s time to come in,” she called.
    Both boys ignored her.
    Their mother tried again. “It’s too dark to play out here. Put the ball away and come into the house, now!”
    “Five more minutes,” insisted the older boy. Joe sensed defiance in both his voice and body language.
    Nikko’s widow put her hand to her forehead. The weary gesture tugged at his heartstrings. Now she was the sole enforcer of the family.
    With a vice around his chest, he watched her square her shoulders. She marched into the street and wrested the bat from the elder boy, who, for a moment, looked ready to retaliate. But then he glimpsed his mother’s expression and relinquished the bat. The threesome trailed quietly into their house. Nikko’s wife shut the door.
    Now was the time to go talk to her.
    Only Joe couldn’t. Guilt burned in him like toxic waste. He shut the car door and started up the engine. With a tire-squealing U-turn, he fled the neighborhood.
    Stabbing at the window button, he brought a gusty ocean breeze into the car. The glow of neon lights lured him to the boardwalk. He paid three dollars to park at the beach.
    Kicking off his shoes and socks, he plodded toward the incoming tide, barefoot. The warm sand squished between his toes. He walked straight into the surf, where the shock of cold water hit his calves, his knees, his thighs. He did not stop walking until it smashed into his hips, nearly knocking him off his feet.
    He stood there, letting the water numb him. Memories of SEAL training flashed back to him. The Coronado Bay was colder at this time of year than the Atlantic Ocean. He and his fellow candidates were made to lie in the surf at dawn, clinging to each other while the waves crashed into them. It was a team-building exercise that taught them that together, they could endure anything.
    Only they hadn’t. They’d been overcome by overwhelming odds and circumstances beyond their control.
    Would Nikko’s widow understand that, or would she blame him the way he blamed himself? He would rather let the water close over his head than face her tonight, but the memory of Nikko’s smile had him turning around.
    With his pants soaking wet, he got back into his car. He returned to Nikko’s quiet neighborhood, got out, and walked barefoot to the front door. Hearing the banter of a television show host, he knocked.
    A shadow blocked the light in the peephole. “What do you want?” He had to look suspicious, standing there in sodden pants.
    “I’m a friend of Nikko’s,” he rasped. “I was with him when he died.”
    The door cracked open. A dusky face peered out.
    “My name’s Joe,” he said, putting out a hand.
    Her hand was slim and small. Holding it put a chokehold on Joe’s vocal cords.
    “Victoria,” she