Jenny’s life is shattered when her Special Ops husband is killed. To
escape the pain, she falls into a dangerous cycle of random sex and
booze, and one night she kills a violent man.
I only had seconds. I sprang up on agile legs, and blundered in the dim
light to my purse. A sad yellow neon light blinked in from the motel
sign just outside.
Enraged, KC bounced off the bed, faltered, then whirled about to face
me. He broke for me, spitting threats and curses, his giant shadow of a
body charging. I felt a twist of terror in the pit of my stomach.
I slipped the Luger from my purse easily—feeling the cool, sticky
grip. There was no time to shout out a warning. He was coming—a
charging, killing animal. I squeezed off two shots. The impact stunned
him, jerked him erect. Froze him. I could see his eyes, wide in the
bright flash of yellow neon. He heaved out a loud breath, like a snort.
“You shot me, you bitch! I’ll kill you! You fuckin’ shot me!
I’ll kill you!”
He came at me, a big angry bear reaching. I fired two more shots. I
watched in horror as he teetered, and stumbled backwards off-balance. He
bounced off the wall, face blank, and dropped like a heavy sack. I felt
the thud of his body shake the floor under my bare feet.
I stood breathing, sweating, heart kicking. I knew he was dead. I
didn’t need to check. I mean, I shot him four times, for Chrissake!
Did anyone hear the shots? I strained my ears. Dead quiet. Were there
people next door? Would someone call the police?
Strangely, I felt calm—incredibly calm. Where was the shock?
Methodically, I slipped the handgun back into my purse. Then I realized
I was naked. I found my clothes, slipped them on, turned the room lights
on dim and searched the room, refusing to look at KC, making sure I
hadn’t left anything: still had my earrings, watch, phone, purse.
Would there be finger prints? Maybe. I knew, from some of Kyle’s
police buddies, that prints were hard to find. I hadn’t touched many
things. I hadn’t even drunk from a glass or used a towel. What about
hair in the bed? A broken nail? No time to search. Impossible anyway.
I turned off the lights and slipped out of the motel into a dark humid
night. The motel office was 70 feet or so away and, fortunately, I
hadn’t stepped inside the office with KC when he registered. I had not
been seen. I listened for police sirens. Nothing. Strange.
We had come on KC’s motorcycle, leaving my car in the bar’s parking
lot. I’d have to walk the five miles or so, and I did, keeping my head
low, edging along in the shadows.
When I arrived back at the bar, the parking lot was still bloated with
motorcycles, trucks and old dinged up cars. I glanced about, saw a
couple locked in a kiss near the front door, climbed into my car,
cranked the engine and drove away, still feeling oddly calm. Why? I had
just killed a man.
The police would soon be looking for the killer, of course. The
bartender had seen me, and the man who had moved to give me his
barstool, had seen me. Would they remember what I looked like? As far as
I knew, they were the only ones. No one knew my name or anything else
about me. Still, there was no doubt the police would find some evidence.
If there was hair in the bed, they’d run a DNA test. This was Florida
after all, and Florida cops weren’t stupid, at least not the ones Kyle
and I had known.
So, what now? I drove, and drove, and kept on driving. I lost track of
time and place, my mind soon entranced by the blurring white lines of
the road, by the hum of the engine and the expanding, chilling
realization that I'd just killed a man.
Excerpted from "She Do Run Run: A Shot of Romantic Suspense" by Amy Swifton. Copyright © 2017 by Amy Swifton. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.