The movie premiere 2

He pulled the bottle out of the cupboard, grabbed a glass, then sat at the kitchen table.

And stared at the package sitting ten inches away from him.

It was harmless in appearance. Brown paper and shiny packing tape; Miguel doubted it weighed more than one pound. The return address was handwritten in black pen. The writing was as feminine as it was formal and neat: “To Mr Miguel Rodriguez"


He broke the whisky label and poured himself a shot.

Outside, an owl hooted in the darkness. Inside, the clock over the stove ticked the seconds away.

Dammit to hell.

He snatched up the package, ripped off the paper, then opened the cardboard box.

It was filled with envelopes. Different sizes, different colors. The top envelope, yellowed with age, had the number one on it. The card inside was pale green, with a white kitten and black spotted puppy. “First Contract with Agatha” it read.

Contract inside a child’s birthday card?

He opened the card, read the generic greeting-card poem inside, then the handwritten inscription. “Agatha will be in charge of all your dealings as from now on....."

Miguel quickly glanced through the stack of envelopes. All of them were birthday cards. There were thirty-three.

He was thirty-three.

Bewildered, he stared at the box.

He downed the shot of whisky, then reached for the second card. There were circus clowns and animals hanging from a large number two. The handwritten note inside the card read, “You must be so curious why I'm so hard on Agatha? The old man behind Agatha took what doesn't belong to him"

He stared at the words, disbelieving. What did his grandpa do? What is that old man hiding from him?

The notes inside became longer with each consecutive card. Year five she asked about the killings, year seven he wondered about sports and music. Each year asked different questions about school or likes and dislikes, all of them were signed: “Consider working with us. Bella spoke so highly of you.”

Miguel smiled at number twelve. There was a photograph of a grinning orangutan on the front of the card, its big hairy hand holding a dozen brightly colored balloons. Inside, under the simple “Agatha must end”

Confused, he stared at the stack of cards piled on the table and rubbed at the tightness inside his bare chest. He didn’t understand anything.
He downed the lump in his throat with another shot of whisky, and unbidden, the thought of another woman, equally tenacious, came to mind. One considerably younger, one that had him in chaos since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

Bella, with her smiling green eyes and sassy mouth. He remembered the kiss he’d given her that first day, and that simple kiss meant only to keep her quiet. But there’d been nothing simple about it at all. Even now he could feel the soft press of her lips under his, he could still taste the sweetness of apricots.

Dammit, anyway!

He sent the cards flying with a sweep of his arm. She’d brought all this aggravation into his life. Aggravation he didn’t need, and sure as hell didn’t want. No woman had given him sleepless nights before or intruded endlessly into his thoughts. No woman had ever left him wanting or tied him up in knots so tightly he couldn’t think straight.

He jumped, then swore when the phone in the living room rang. It had to be Grandpa. No doubt he was more than annoyed with him for not calling her, and the fact that it was almost two in the morning wouldn’t matter even remotely to her.

He grabbed the phone on the third ring. “Dammit, grandpa, get off my back. I’ll call you when I’m good and ready.”

“It’s not grandpa,” a feminine voice whispered. “It’s Bella.”

“Bella?” His hand tightened on the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, if you aren’t too busy, could you come over here?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “I think there’s someone trying to break in the front door. I don't want to disturb the security in the front door.

Bella stood behind the door in the pitch-darkness, a castiron skillet in her hands. The scratching sound she’d heard only a moment ago had stopped. Except for the pounding of her heart, now there was only silence.

Breath held, shivering in her thin cotton tank top and boxers, she waited.

The doorknob creaked, then turned.

Her hands tightened around the handle of the heavy frying pan; she sucked in a breath as the door slowly opened. When the dark shape stepped into the room, she raised the pan over her head.

“Bella?”

Miguel? Too late to stop her swing, she brought the pan down, though not as hard as she would have. It landed with a solid hit, and she heard a hard object scoot across the wood floor. An explicit string of swear words filled the quiet.

"Oh, my God, Miguel!” The frying pan slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Sure I am,” he muttered irritably. “You just cracked my skull in half, why wouldn’t I be?”

“How did you get here so fast? I just called you.” She reached out into the darkness, made contact with his head. “I thought you were a prowler.”

“Ow!” He jerked away. “What the hell did you hit me with, a slab of concrete?”

“Frying pan.” She closed the door, then took his hand and carefully dragged him to the living room sofa. “I think I broke it.”

“My head or the frying pan?” he grumbled, but let himself be pulled down on the sofa beside her. “Where the hell is my gun?”

She flipped on the lamp beside the couch. Soft light spilled over them. “You brought a gun?”

“No, I was wondering where my gun at home is.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Of course I brought a gun. You said someone was breaking in.”

“I just didn’t realize you had one, that’s all.” She spotted the pistol on the floor by the coffee table and shivered at the sight of it. She hated guns. “Is it loaded?” He turned his head sideways, glanced at her with a look that told her it definitely was. She shivered again.

When his eyes closed in pain again, she reached for him. “Here, let me look at your head.”

“You’ve done enough for one night.” He jerked away when she touched his head.

She frowned at him. “Stop acting like a baby and come here.”

“Baby? Me? You’re the one who called me, remember?”

“I heard something.”

“And you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” she lied. “I had the situation completely under control. I only called you in case I needed backup.”

“You were scared.” He brought his face close to hers and narrowed his eyes. “Admit it, Bella.”

She sighed with exasperation. Admitting weakness to this man was like riding a motorcycle without a helmet. Sooner or later she was going to be sorry.