Wanda rose, slipped an address book out of a drawer on a side table, and tore out a page. “Here, just take it. I never want to talk to that woman again.”
Cain took the paper. “Does Desiree know about the FBI visiting you?”
Wanda nodded. “I called her.”
“Why, to warn her?”
“Something like that.”
“Blood really is thicker than water.”
“Desiree is not a blood relative of mine,” said Wanda petulantly.
“Really? Well, pardon me for being confused on that shit.”
“Can you . . . can you forgive us?” asked Wanda.
Cain shook her head. “The only reason I’m not going to hurt you both is because you’re not worth the trouble.” She held up the paper. “But if this number is not Desiree’s, then I’m coming back. And everything that bitch did to me, I’m going to do to you. And I haven’t forgotten a single thing. Trust me.”
After she left, Wanda collapsed back into her chair, sobbing.
On the way to her car Cain stopped and launched a powerful side kick against the lamppost next to the sidewalk, sending it crashing to the ground. Then she climbed into her car and looked down at the paper with the number on it.
She had never been this close to Desiree before. And she knew she had to keep out of the range of the FBI. But now that she had made the decision to do this, there was no turning back. If she was going down, so was Desiree.
CHAPTER
36
CAIN HAD NO INTENTION OF CALLING DESIREE. She drove into Huntsville and stopped for something to eat. She also searched on her phone for a way to find the address attached to the number Wanda had given her. She quickly found it, and for a small fee to allow herself premium status, the internet search service she had found spit out the name Dolores Venuti and a physical address in Asheville, North Carolina.
Dolores Venuti must be her new name.
Cain plugged the address into her phone GPS. It was five hours if she didn’t stop.
It was mostly interstate, and the hours went by fast as she drove through the Blue Ridge Mountains. The peak fall colors had passed and many trees had dropped their leaves, but it was still an inspiring sight. If Cain hadn’t been so oblivious to her surroundings.
She listened to the radio for any additional mention of “Becky from Georgia,” but there was none. About an hour out she stopped once to pee at a rest stop, then sat outside at a picnic table and drank down a bottle of G2 and ate a banana she’d bought. She stretched out some kinks in her back and legs before she got back into the car.
Before she drove off she opened the glove box and eyed the Glock in there. She’d had the gun for three years. She’d only fired it at shooting ranges. She pondered whether she could actually fire a round into Desiree’s head.
She came away unsure, but that was progress, only Cain didn’t know what kind.
The woman had tortured her for all those years, piling one despicable act on top of another. And Joe had done little to stop her, so she had no reason to feel any sorrow at his death. Yet she had been relieved to know that she hadn’t killed the man, after all these years of thinking she had. But the fact that his true killer and her years-long torturer, Desiree, had gotten away scot-free was just too much to take.
What she was doing might cost her whatever life she had left. But she also knew she could never enjoy another second of living while Desiree breathed air. All those years ago Cain had simply wanted to get away. Now she wanted something more. You could call it payback, revenge—justice, even. She wasn’t sure which one was applicable, if any. But she was sure that, whatever it actually was, she had to get it, or die trying. It was like all the emotional bills pending from that time in her life were now coming due. And she was the debt collector.