The Bellagio was known for having the hottest bartenders on the Las Vegas strip. Cassidy had been making eyes at one before Tommy DeMartino sat down beside her.
“You alone?”
“I am now.”
“I saw you earlier on the dance floor—with your friends.”
“My friends have to work tomorrow. I don’t,” she replied, crossing her legs on the barstool, effectively hiking up her skirt to catch his admiring eye.
“You want to grab some dinner?”
“I already ate.”
“You want another drink?”
“I do.”
Tommy DeMartino turned to the bartender. With a flicker of recognition, the bartender trotted over and smiled nervously.
“What can I get you?”
“Two more of these,” Tommy DeMartino replied crisply.
“Yes, sir.”
Their drinks appeared in an instant.
“What’s in this?” he asked, smelling the drink first.
“Coffee liqueur, vodka, club soda.”
“Fantastic,” he said, polishing it off. He ordered another. “I could drink these all night.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Cassidy grinned, counting the rings on his fingers. “They’re called Mind Erasers for a reason, but sometimes it’s fun to disappear.”
He laughed. “So, you’ve had dinner. How about dessert?”
“I like dessert.”
“Zabaglione on the rooftop terrace?”
“Let’s go,” Cassidy purred, threading her arm through his.
🜋 🜋 🜋
He got handsy in the elevator, kissing her mouth, kissing her neck.
When Cassidy embraced him, she felt a gun strapped under his armpit.
“That’s a big gun.”
“I have a bigger one,” he leered.
“Can I hold it?” Cassidy teased him, tipsy from too many Mind Erasers.
To her surprise, he took a step back, removed the weapon from his shoulder holster, and handed her the gun.
“Ooo,” she cooed. “This is a big gun.”
“Careful with that. It’s—”
A whip-like crack exploded in the elevator. His hands momentarily clawed at his neck, most of it missing.
Tommy DeMartino fell to the elevator floor like a sack of potatoes.
At that moment, the door chimed open.
Rooftop.
She dropped the gun.
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Her heart jackhammering in her chest, Cassidy exited the elevator with her head down.
As the elevator door closed behind her, she briskly walked down the corridor, passing by revelers in the hallway. She hoped it was too dark and they were too drunk to notice the dark splatters on her dress, her neck, her face.
The small group passed by without incident, oblivious to the wild-eyed woman hunched over, her arms folded tight.
Cassidy looked up to see one of the casino’s security cameras in the ceiling, recording her every move.
With her rap sheet, she needed to be long gone before the authorities arrived.
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Vanishing into a stairwell, Cassidy took off her heels to scramble down thirty flights of stairs to the parking garage. Once inside the concrete structure, she kept to the shadows.
Her late model Toyota stood innocently—just where she’d left it hours before.
As she opened her car door, a pair of burly men bustled around the corner, moving too quickly to not mean her any harm.
“Excuse me, Miss!”
Cassidy flattened the accelerator with her foot, peeling out of her parking spot, nearly hitting both men.
She didn’t quit driving until she was deep in Red Rock Canyon.
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It was late in the season.
There were plenty of cabins to break into where she could pull herself together.
Parking off the main road, she carried her purse and high heels, walking around a frozen pond, leaving bare footprints in the snow.
She selected one cabin, plain and nondescript. With the end of her hairbrush, she shattered a thin pane of glass, reached inside, unlocked the door, and entered.
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The cabin was cozy—rustic, but cozy. Without ceremony, she strode inside, fell onto the lumpy couch, and disappeared into a dark slumber.
In the morning, Cassidy awoke, queasy and feverish. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the filthy toilet. Turning on the tap, she scrubbed off clumpy mascara, heavy eyeliner, thick foundation, and dark red lipstick with a bar of Ivory soap.
Besides a threadbare recliner, the living room boasted an old television set complete with an ancient antenna. She flicked the television on. The local channels appeared blurry, out of focus, but the sound was clear.
“A terrifying scene last night on the Las Vegas Strip. Tommy DeMartino was found murdered in a mob-style hit at the Bellagio Hotel…Tommy, son of Vincent DeMartino, had been the focus of an FBI investigation into—”
Cassidy snapped the television off before running back to the toilet.
Later, she rummaged through the bedroom closet, finding warmer clothing and boots that nearly fit her. Returning to the kitchen, she found a few cans of chili, dried apples, a sack of acorns, and a wood-burning stove. More importantly, she discovered a bolt action rifle—with four rounds of ammo.
If there was one thing her despicable father had taught her, it was how to kill and butcher a deer. She had often thought how satisfying it would have been to kill and butcher him.
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A week later, her canned food ran out. Dividing up the acorns, she put a portion on a plate and left it just outside the cabin, near the fork in the road where she’d seen deer crossing.
Then she waited.
After several hours, a buck finally appeared. She startled out of her stupor and leveled the rifle at him. In her haste, she fired off a round, but the shot went wide.
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The next day, she tried again.
Cassidy left fewer acorns, bided her time, waited patiently until two fawns came into the clearing.
She closed one eye, squeezed off two shots, missing them both.
In tears, she went back into the cabin, threw herself in the recliner, clicked on the television set.
“Crime Stoppers has received several tips on the killing of Tommy DeMartino last week. Police are looking for a person of interest. If you have seen—”
Cassidy turned off the television set. The photograph of her was at least ten years old, but it was a fair resemblance.
She looked at the rifle.
There was one bullet left.
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Being hungry didn’t bother Cassidy. She’d often been hungry.
But every rustling leaf or snapped twig sounded like men coming to arrest her—or worse. And shooting a mafioso’s son wouldn’t bring her a slow painless death, either.
Her father had taught her that much, as well.
🜋 🜋 🜋
On her third attempt, she set out the last of the acorns, stared out at the road, and waited for something to come.
The deer came first—but they were scattered by the arrival of a large dark van.
Carrying the rifle with her, Cassidy retreated to the back porch where she heard heavy footsteps on the front stoop.
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The footsteps stopped when a single shot rang out.
The men looked disappointed, robbed of some unspoken pleasure.
But what they failed to notice was a barefoot woman, circling behind them, running as silent as a deer, around a frozen pond.