Free The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox

Deliberately, she spoke crisply. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I know about the car.”
    “Suit yourself.” He turned another corner, more sharply this time. When she’d mentioned Josh, she’d seen Tom’s smile tighten, then fade. Bracing herself against another petulant lurch of the car, she turned to face the front.
    “I saw Sally Mathewson in the parking lot,” Tom said. “She told me that you had a prowler last night.”
    “Not really a prowler,” she answered, somehow unwilling to tell him of the incident. “A prankster, more like it.”
    “Sally said someone dropped a switch-blade knife through your mail slot.”
    “That’s right. But I—”
    “If I were you,” he interrupted, “I’d call the police. This Tarot thing brings the other nuts out of the woodwork, you know.” His voice was brusque, as if he expected her to obey him.
    For a moment she didn’t reply. Then, speaking above the sound of the engine and the rush of the wind as they gathered speed, she said, “I don’t want to upset Josh, though.”
    “How do you know it’d upset him? He might get his kicks, seeing a couple of policemen sitting in the living room.”
    “He might also have nightmares,” she answered. And, immediately, remembering Josh’s nightmare-frightened cry on the night Tom had taken her home, she regretted saying it.
    Tom remembered, too. “Yeah,” he said drily. “I see what you mean.” He glanced over his shoulder, then swung the sportscar abruptly into the right lane. In two blocks he’d turn off the busy boulevard. Another three blocks and she’d be home.
    Should she ask him to drop her at the corner grocery store? If Kevin were staying for dinner, she must shop. But if he couldn’t stay—wouldn’t stay—then she’d have shopped for nothing. For Josh and herself, she’d planned creamed tuna over toast and a salad. So it was better, really, to go home first. If Kevin were staying, she could walk to the store. All afternoon, off and on, she’d considered the dinner menu. It shouldn’t be too elaborate—too obviously an effort at entrapment. But it shouldn’t be too casual, either. She shouldn’t—
    “This is the corner. Right?”
    “Right.”
    “Be sure and let me know about tomorrow night.” Again, it was more a command than a request.
    “Yes.” Ahead, she could see her house. Her Chevrolet was parked in the driveway with its hood raised. On tiptoe, Josh was peering into the engine compartment. On the opposite side of the car, she saw two blue-jeaned legs, braced wide. A bright orange Volkswagen was parked at the curb.
    It was her car—Cathy’s.
    Somehow it seemed an intrusion—an arrogant reminder. Had it been calculated? Had Kevin—
    “Who’s that working on your car?” Tom asked, swinging the Alfa close behind the Volkswagen.
    She pushed open the door. “It’s my—my husband,” she muttered. “Josh’s father.”
    “Ah…” Tom nodded, slipping the Alfa into gear as he shot a narrow, male-to-male look at Kevin, now wiping his hands as he straightened beside the Chevrolet.
    “Well—” Tom flipped a casual hand as he gunned the Alfa’s powerful engine. “Well, see you tomorrow, ducks.”
    Suddenly conscious of an empty sense of lonely despair, she could only nod.
    Kevin put the pliers on the air cleaner and wiped his greasy hands on a pair of Josh’s discarded pajama bottoms. The pajamas were patterned in a gay circus motif. Years ago, his mother had made the pajamas for her grandson and sent them along in a Christmas box. It had been Josh’s third Christmas. They’d been living in San Francisco, happy together in a huge, rundown flat in North Beach. Working in educational films during the day and writing screenplays at night, he’d felt a strong, sure sense of purpose—a certainty that his big break was close at hand. To himself, he’d always thought of it that way: his big break. Italicized. It was an out-of-date, hackneyed phrase. But somehow the words