The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [36]
“Glad it worked out.” Vail turned to gather her papers, but Hancock grabbed her arm.
“I know you said some bad things about me.” His voice was low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I won’t forget that.”
Vail’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t threaten me, Hancock. Nothing you say or do scares me. You come at me, I’ll crush you under my heel. Don’t you forget that.”
Vail grabbed her leather messenger bag and winked at Robby, then walked out the door.
fourteen
Charcoal gray thunderclouds threatened a downpour, but thus far they had held their load. Karen Vail had a ten o’clock appointment with her family law attorney but stopped at Deacon’s house on the way. If there was an amicable solution to the custody issue—meaning no attorneys involved—she wanted to find it. She liked her attorney but had no desire to fund another of his five-star resort vacations.
She didn’t think Deacon would go for it, but she was prepared to make a Mafia-style offer: one he couldn’t refuse . . . one that would waive her rights to the house. If there was one way to get at the armored organ Deacon once called a heart, it was through his wallet.
Vail stood at the peeling steel gray wood door and felt like a trespasser. It’d only been eighteen months since she had moved out, but in that time she had become a different person. A person who couldn’t stand the man who owned the house she used to call her own. She put her hands on her hips and glanced down at her feet. Did she really want to ring this bell? Did she really want to see Deacon?
She could go through her attorney, have him handle everything, and never have to see her ex’s face again. But if she could appeal to the side of him she used to love, the good-natured, hard-working soul that shriveled into oblivion, maybe get him to agree—
The wood door swung open and revealed a disheveled forty-year old man, leather-grained face and wild, pepper-colored hair. A stained white T-shirt hung over faded jeans. He may have stood near five-eleven, but his large-boned frame and new paunch made him look larger than that. He stepped closer to the screen door. “The fuck you doing here?”
Vail immediately marveled at how an individual could descend so quickly, and completely, into Dante’s Inferno.
“You knock? Didn’t hear a knock.”
“I was about to ring the bell.”
“You didn’t answer me. What the fuck do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Jonathan.”
“What about?”
“Can I come in?”
Deacon pushed the screen door open and nearly struck Vail in the face. He turned and headed into the darkness. Bargain basement furniture adorned the living room. It was the same assortment of couches and recliners Vail had wanted to throw out—Good Will and Salvation Army turned her down—but after being out of work awhile, Deacon didn’t want to spend money on new pieces. “These work just fine for me,” he had said at the time. As if he was the only one who lived there.
Vail glanced at the issues of Penthouse and Jugs strewn across the coffee table and cringed at the thought that Jonathan was being exposed to this on a regular basis. These were things she would mention should they end up in court, to paint a picture of the home environment Deacon provided.
Deacon bent over and turned off the television. “So?”
“Jonathan’s not happy here, Deacon. From what I gather, you’re not happy having him here, either.”
“Don’t be speaking for me. He’s my boy, a man needs his boy around. A boy needs his father.”
Normally, Vail wouldn’t argue with that statement. But since Deacon was the father—
“So if that’s all you came to talk to me about, I’d say we’re about done.”
But Vail didn’t like being dictated to, and she despised his flippant attitude. Her heart began pounding. Anger swelled. No, not just anger. Hatred. Where had the man gone she’d loved so many years ago?
“I came to offer you something,” she said. “For Jonathan. Give me full custody and I’ll waive all my rights to the