Chapter 37: Breakfast and a Bullet
The alarm was a knife through the skull.
Emma's eyes snapped open. The ceiling swam above her—dark wood, exposed beams, a ceiling fan spinning lazy circles that did nothing to cool the sweat on her skin. Her mouth tasted like copper and cotton. Her head throbbed in time with the electronic shriek coming from somewhere to her left.
Beside her, Maggie groaned.
"Turn it off," she rasped. "Turn it the fuck off."
Emma rolled over. The bed was massive, bigger than any bed she'd ever slept in, draped in white linens that felt like clouds and smelled like lavender. A nightstand sat beside her, and on it, a small digital clock blared 7:00 AM in angry red numbers.
She fumbled for the button. Silence crashed down.
"Oh, thank God." Maggie pressed her palms against her eyes. "What the hell did we drink last night?"
"Everything."
"Right. Right, yeah." Maggie dropped her hands. Her mascara was smeared across her cheeks like war paint, her jet-black bob sticking up in wild directions. "I feel like I got hit by a truck. A truck full of vodka."
Emma laughed, then immediately regretted it. Her head punished her for the sound.
They lay there for a moment, two bodies in a strange bed in a strange house, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on them like a physical thing. Jim was dead. Caron was alive. Caron had killed him. Caron had—
"Shower," Maggie said. "I need a shower. I need to wash last night off my skin."
Emma didn't argue.
They stripped off the micro-mini dresses, the fabric so thin it felt like paper, and let them pool on the floor. The bathroom was all white marble and gold fixtures, a shower big enough for six people with rainfall showerheads and glass walls that fogged instantly when Maggie turned the water on.
Steam billowed. Emma stepped in first, gasping as the hot water hit her shoulders, her back, the knots of tension that had taken up permanent residence in her muscles. Maggie followed, her body pressing against Emma's in the cramped space, her hands finding Emma's hips.
"You okay?" Maggie murmured.
"No."
"Me neither."
They stood there for a long moment, letting the water run over them, letting the heat seep into their bones. Emma closed her eyes. She could feel Maggie's breath on her neck, warm and steady, could feel the rise and fall of her chest against her back.
Then Maggie's lips found her shoulder.
Soft. Questioning.
Emma turned.
The kiss was deep and slow, tasting of stale champagne and something underneath, something raw and desperate. Maggie's hands slid up Emma's sides, fingers tracing the curve of her ribs, the swell of her breasts. Emma moaned into her mouth, pulling her closer, needing to feel something other than the cold hollow that had taken up residence in her chest.
The water pounded down. Steam wrapped around them like a blanket.
Maggie's fingers found Emma's clit, circling slow and deliberate, and Emma gasped against her mouth. She was already wet, already aching, the heroin from last night still humming in her veins, making everything softer, sharper, more intense.
"Don't stop," Emma breathed.
"I won't."
Maggie worked her with practiced precision, two fingers sliding inside while her thumb pressed against her clit, and Emma's hips bucked forward, chasing the pressure. The pleasure built like a wave, starting in her toes and rolling upward, and when it crested, she bit down on Maggie's shoulder to keep from screaming.
The orgasm shuddered through her, leaving her trembling and breathless.
But Maggie wasn't done.
She spun Emma around, pressed her against the cold marble wall, and dropped to her knees. The water streamed over both of them, plastering Maggie's hair to her skull, running in rivulets down her face. She looked up at Emma with those piercing green eyes, and then her mouth was on her.
Emma's head fell back. Her hands tangled in Maggie's wet hair. The world dissolved into sensation—tongue and lips and teeth, pressure building again, faster this time, needier.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, Maggie, fuck—"
She came again, harder than before, her legs shaking so badly she had to brace herself against the wall to keep from falling.
When Maggie finally stood, her lips were swollen, her eyes bright. Emma kissed her, tasting herself on her tongue, and then her hand slid down between Maggie's thighs.
"Your turn."
Maggie's laugh was low and throaty. "Baby, I've been ready since I woke up."
Emma touched her. Found her slick and hot. Slid two fingers inside while her thumb found her clit, mimicking what Maggie had done to her, learning the rhythms of her body the way she'd learned them a hundred times before.
Maggie's head dropped to Emma's shoulder. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. "That's it. Right there. Don't you dare stop."
Emma didn't stop.
She brought Maggie to the edge and over, once, twice, three times, until Maggie's legs gave out and they both sank to the shower floor, tangled together under the spray, laughing and crying and holding each other like they might never let go.
---
The clock on the nightstand read 7:47 when they finally emerged.
Emma's skin was pink and pruned, her hair dripping down her back. She felt cleaner than she had in weeks—not just physically, but something deeper. Something that had been caked on her soul, layer after layer of fear and grief and self-loathing, washed away by hot water and Maggie's touch.
It wouldn't last. She knew that. But for now, for this moment, she felt almost human.
The dresses lay where they'd left them, crumpled on the floor like shed skin. Emma picked hers up, shook it out, and pulled it over her head. No underwear—they'd been explicit about that. The fabric clung to her damp body, barely covering anything, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable and strangely powerful all at once.
Maggie did the same. When she turned to face the mirror, Emma saw her reflection flicker with something—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
They looked dangerous.
Standing side by side in the bathroom mirror, hair wet and wild, eyes hollow and rimmed with red, bodies wrapped in scraps of fabric that barely qualified as clothing. They looked like women who had seen things. Women who had done things. Women who would do more.
"We look like we're about to rob a bank," Maggie said.
"Or attend a very exclusive funeral."
"Same thing."
They shared a look. There was history in that look—fifteen years of it, though Emma had only been part of the last few. She saw Maggie's pain reflected back at her, her own confusion, their mutual determination to survive whatever came next.
A knock at the door.
"Breakfast in fifteen minutes," a male voice called through the wood. "Mr. Lopez requests your presence in the dining room."
Emma's stomach clenched.
Maggie's jaw tightened.
"Guess we're meeting the king," Maggie said.
"Guess so."
They walked to the dining room together, bare feet on cold marble, escorted by two men in dark suits who didn't speak and didn't look at them directly. The hallway stretched on forever, lined with paintings of landscapes and old photographs Emma didn't recognize, doors closed on either side hiding God knew what.
The grand dining room opened up before them like a cathedral.
High ceilings disappeared into shadows, the windows along one wall revealing a wall of green—trees and ferns and the deep, dark forest beyond. A long table dominated the center, polished mahogany gleaming under crystal chandeliers, and on it sat a feast: silver platters of eggs and bacon and fruit, carafes of orange juice, a coffee service that looked like it cost more than Emma's first car.
At the head of the table, Hector Lopez sat like a king.
He was dressed in a white linen shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark hair was slicked back, silver at the temples, and his smile was exactly as Emma remembered it—warm on the surface, cold underneath.
Beside him, Caron.
She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine. Blonde hair perfectly styled, falling in waves over her shoulders. Makeup flawless—smoky eyes, nude lips, cheekbones highlighted to catch the light. She wore a simple white dress, elegant and understated, and she held a cup of coffee in both hands like she was posing for a portrait.
Emma's heart stuttered.
Yesterday, she had killed Jim. Today, she looked like she'd slept eight hours and woken up fresh as a flower.
"Good morning," Hector said. "I trust you slept well."
Emma said nothing. Maggie said even less.
"Please, sit." He gestured to the chairs on either side of him. "Eat. You must be hungry."
They sat because there was no other choice. Emma took the chair to his right, Maggie to his left, and within moments a server appeared to pour coffee into delicate porcelain cups.
Caron smiled at them. It was the same smile Emma remembered from a hundred lazy mornings, from nights tangled in sheets, from moments when the world had felt safe. It was the same smile, and it meant nothing.
"You look beautiful," Caron said.
Emma stared at her.
"So do you," Maggie said flatly. "The murder agrees with you."
Caron's smile didn't waver. She reached for a crystal decanter of vodka and poured a generous splash into Emma's coffee, then Maggie's, then her own.
"Drink," she said. "It helps."
Emma wrapped her hands around the cup. The warmth seeped into her palms, grounding her, and she took a sip. The vodka burned on the way down, sharp and clean, cutting through the fog in her brain.
"I bet you're wondering why I asked you here," Caron said.
"I'm wondering why you didn't just let him kill us," Maggie replied.
"Because I owe you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Caron set her cup down. Her eyes moved between them, blue and steady, and Emma saw something in them that she hadn't seen last night—something almost like compassion.
"Emma," she said. "I need you to understand something."
"Okay."
"Hector has given me a life. A real one. A penthouse on Santa Monica beach, stocked with anything I could ever want. Booze, drugs, cigarettes—whatever I need to feel good. Whatever I need to feel nothing at all."
She paused. Took a breath.
"In exchange, I service him. And his men. And his clients, when they visit Los Angeles. I'm his. Completely and utterly his. And I'm okay with that."
Emma's stomach turned.
"You're okay with being a—"
"Don't." Caron's voice sharpened. "Don't call me that. You don't get to judge me. Not after everything."
The silence stretched.
"I'm not judging you," Emma said quietly. "I'm just trying to understand."
Caron's expression softened. She reached across the table and took Emma's hand, her fingers warm and familiar.
"I love you," she said. "I've loved you since the moment we met. You know that, right?"
Emma couldn't speak.
"I do. I always have. But I couldn't stay. I couldn't keep pretending that Jim was going to change, that things would get better, that we could all just keep going like nothing was wrong." She squeezed Emma's hand. "So I made a choice. And I chose me."
Tears pricked at Emma's eyes. She blinked them back.
"I'm sorry," Caron whispered. "I'm sorry for everything."
Then she let go of Emma's hand and turned to Maggie.
And her eyes went cold.
"But you," she said. "You I can't forgive."
Maggie's body went rigid.
"Fifteen years ago, you took Jim from me." Caron's voice was ice. "You humiliated me. You made me feel like nothing. You stood in my living room, in my house, and you told me I was a pretty little thing who didn't know how the world worked. And then you took him to bed, and you kept him there, and you never looked back."
Maggie's hands were shaking. Emma could see them trembling on the table.
"That was a long time ago," Maggie said.
"Time doesn't heal everything."
"I was drunk. I was high. I was—"
"I don't care."
Caron stood. Her chair scraped against the floor, a sound that cut through the room like a blade.
Hector watched. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched.
"You had everything," Caron said. "You had him. You had this life. You had agency, power, respect. And you threw it away. You let yourself become this—this hollow thing. This collection of vices held together by sheer force of will." She shook her head. "You disgust me."
Maggie rose to her feet.
"I know," she said. "I disgust myself."
"Then you understand why this has to happen."
"Understand what?"
Caron gestured. Two men appeared from the shadows—the same two from the apartment, Emma realized, the ones who had driven them here. They moved fast, efficient, grabbing Maggie by the arms and forcing her hands behind her back.
"Hey—" Maggie struggled. "Hey, what the fuck—"
Metal clicked. Handcuffs.
"Get off me!" Maggie thrashed, her heel catching one of the men in the shin. He grunted but didn't let go. The other one yanked her arms higher, drawing a cry from her throat.
"Let her go!" Emma stood, her chair toppling backward. "What are you doing?"
Nobody answered.
The men dragged Maggie into the great room, past the fireplace, past the clusters of leather furniture, and forced her to her knees in the center of the floor. Her micro-mini dress had ridden up, exposing her thighs, and her mascara-streaked face was twisted with fear and fury.
"Emma." Maggie's voice cracked. "Emma, don't let them—"
Caron walked to a cabinet. Opened it. Removed a handgun.
The world went very, very quiet.
Emma watched Caron check the magazine, rack the slide, click off the safety. Her movements were practiced. Comfortable. Like she'd done this a hundred times before.
"You said you loved me," Emma whispered.
Caron looked at her. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—sadness, regret, maybe even love.
"I do," she said. "I always will."
"Then why?"
"Because this is the price, Emma." Caron stepped closer, the gun dangling from her fingers. "This is what it costs to have a life. To have safety. To start over. There's always a price."
Emma's hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. She thought about Jim, about the sound the bullet had made, about the way his blood had spread across the carpet like spilled wine. She thought about this morning—the shower, the water, Maggie's mouth on hers. She thought about everything she'd ever wanted and everything she'd ever lost.
"I can't," she said.
Caron held out the gun.
"Yes, you can."
Maggie was crying now. Big, ugly sobs that shook her whole body, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivers.
"Emma," she said. "Emma, please. Don't do this. Please—"
"I'm sorry," Emma whispered.
It was the truest thing she'd ever said.
She reached out and took the gun.
Caron smiled.
The gun was heavier than she expected.
Not just physically—though it was that too, a solid weight that pulled at her wrist, at her forearm, at the tendons in her shoulder. But metaphysically. Spiritually. It carried the weight of everything that had led to this moment: the years of running, the nights of using, the mornings waking up next to people who would eventually betray her.
Emma's fingers wrapped around the grip. The metal was cold.
Maggie's sobs filled the great room. Ugly, raw, the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and primal. Her mascara had given up entirely, black streaks cutting through the foundation, through the powder, through every layer of armor she'd built over fifty-five years of survival.
"Please," Maggie gasped. "Emma, baby, please don't—"
"Shut up."
The words came out flat. Not angry. Not sad. Just flat, like a blade sliding across a whetstone.
Maggie's mouth snapped closed.
Emma looked at Caron. At the perfect blonde hair. The flawless makeup. The white dress that probably cost more than Emma's entire wardrobe. At the smile that had once made her feel like the center of the universe and now made her feel like nothing at all.
"You want this," Emma said.
Caron nodded.
"You need this."
Another nod.
"Then watch."
Emma turned.
The men holding Maggie had stepped back. Not far—just a few feet, enough to give her room, enough to give Emma a clear shot. They stood with their hands clasped in front of them, faces blank, like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Maybe they had.
The great room stretched out around them. Vaulted ceilings. Exposed beams. A fireplace big enough to walk into, cold and empty and waiting. The leather furniture clustered like witnesses, silent and still.
Emma walked toward Maggie.
Her bare feet made no sound on the tile. The micro-mini dress clung to her thighs, damp from the shower, from the arousal, from the cold sweat that had broken out across her entire body. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her temples, in the hollow place behind her eyes.
Maggie looked up at her.
Her green eyes were wide. Wet. Terrified. But underneath the terror, something else flickered—something that looked almost like acceptance.
"Do it," Maggie whispered.
Emma stopped.
"What?"
"Do it." Maggie's voice cracked but held. "I've been dying for years. You know that. You've watched me die, piece by piece, every time I stuck a needle in my arm, every time I drank myself into a stupor, every time I fucked someone I didn't love just to feel something."
"Maggie—"
"I'm already gone, baby." A tear slid down her cheek. "I've been gone. This is just—this is just making it official."
Emma's hand trembled.
She thought about the first time she'd met Maggie. Three years ago, in a bar in downtown LA, Maggie had walked in like she owned the place and ordered a vodka martini with three olives. Emma had watched her from across the room, drawn to her like a moth to flame.
She thought about the first time they'd kissed. Six months later, in the back of a limo, both of them high on coke and champagne, Maggie's hands in her hair, her mouth on her neck.
She thought about all the mornings after. Waking up next to her. Watching her smoke her first cigarette of the day. Listening to her complain about hangovers and heartbreak and the general unfairness of existence.
She thought about last night. The shower. The water. The way Maggie had knelt before her, had worshiped her with her mouth, had made her feel something other than empty.
"Close your eyes," Emma said.
Maggie closed her eyes.
Emma raised the gun.
The room held its breath.
Caron watched from the edge of her vision, still smiling, still perfect, still utterly in control. Hector sat in his chair like a king surveying his kingdom. The two men stood at attention, ready to clean up whatever mess came next.
Emma's finger found the trigger.
She thought about Jim. About the sound the bullet had made when it entered his skull. About the way his eyes had gone wide with surprise, with confusion, with something that might have been relief.
She thought about the penthouse on Santa Monica beach. About the booze and the drugs and the cigarettes. About a life where she never had to think about anything ever again.
She thought about how easy it would be.
Just a fraction of pressure. Just a slight curl of her finger. Just one moment of surrender, one final act of obedience, one last betrayal in a life that had been nothing but betrayal.
Maggie's lips moved. A whisper, barely audible.
"I love you."
Emma's eyes burned.
She slides the silencer of the gun into Maggie’s open mouth. She smiled at Maggie,”Goodbye Maggie.”
Emma pulls the trigger.