Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

of that cut.”
    She steers him into the bathroom, closes the door behind him, and smiles at me.
    “I still need you to walk me home, Jack.”
    I’m too amazed to do more than nod. I put my arm around her waist and she leans her head against my shoulder while I walk her two doors down the hall to my own room. Her hair smells so good I almost drop the key trying to unlock my door.
    The next few hours could be a dozen songs I’m never going to write, and she’s still lying beside me when morning creeps through the curtains. I look at the clock while she’s in the shower and wonder how I’m going to give her cab fare home without looking like the jerk of the universe. And if I’m still going to have a job when Bish sees me again.
    Shonna Lee comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and drops her towel on the bed like we’ve been together forever. She gives me a kiss and takes her time putting her clothes back on.
    “We should go see Mr. Underwood, shouldn’t we?”
    “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.
    “It’s better if we’re together.” She opens the door and starts down the hall, leaving me to catch up.
    There’s no answer when I knock. I try the doorknob. It’s not locked.
    That cracked glass is still on the coffee table, the champagne is floating in the melted ice, and the fruit is getting a little brown around the edges. Bishop is nowhere in sight. I stick my head in the bedroom, but the bed hasn’t been slept in.
    Shonna Lee takes the few remaining bits of ice from the bucket and drops them into the cracked glass. She wraps a napkin around the bottle and pours just a tad of bourbon too, then she flicks the crack with the bourbon bottle, and the glass crumbles so liquid leaks onto the table. She puts the bottle on the table next to the glass and folds the napkin again before she looks at me, then at the bathroom door.
    I don’t hear the shower or any movement behind it. I knock a couple of times, but nobody answers. I try the knob.
    Bish is lying on the floor, blood on the sink, blood on the toilet, blood around his mouth, blood soaking the white bath mat. His eyes are bulging and his face is blue.
    I come back into the room and see the girl dipping one of the remaining strawberries in whipped cream. Her face looks like I don’t have any surprises for her.
    “What was in that envelope?” I ask.
    “What envelope?” Her voice is smoother than the whipped cream and I feel a cold lump in my stomach.
    “You flushed it down my toilet, didn’t you?”
    She looks at the champagne bottle leaning against the side of the bucket, then picks up another strawberry.
    “I was with you all night, Jack. I’m your alibi.”
    “I had no reason to want him dead.”
    She raises her eyebrows and bites into that strawberry. I remember the night in jail when he made me give up my songs. And the day he sold my guitar. And all the rest of it.
    “They’ll think he was so drunk he swallowed the broken glass.”
    Along with the hot sugar she hid it in.
    “Jesus,” I say. “What an awful way to go.”
    “I imagine.” She licks her fingers delicately. “Probably even worse than hanging.”
    For a second, I think I’m going to throw up. “What’s your real name?”
    “Shonna Lee.”
    We look each other in the eye. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out another envelope.
    “Shonna Lee Mattix.”
    My voice feels heavy as lead. “Why not me too?”
    She hands me the envelope. It’s addressed to the Mattix family in Tillerville, Mississippi, and I recognize my own handwriting.
    She’s right. Things never go away. They just go underground until their time comes around again.
    “I’m your alibi too, aren’t I?”
    “Only if you tell them my full name.” She slides the envelope back into her jacket and her eyes meet mine again. “And why would you do that?”
    I pick up the phone and dial the front desk.

THE FINAL BALLOT
    BY BRENDAN DuBOIS
    E ventually the room emptied of the two state police detectives, the detective from the Manchester Police Department, the Secret Service agent, the emergency room physician, and the patient representative from the hospital, until only one man remained with her, standing in one corner of the small hospital room used to brief family members about what was going on with their loved ones. Beth Mooney sat in one of the light orange vinyl-covered easy chairs, hands clasped tight in her lap, as the man looked her over.
    “Well,” he said.