I didn’t cry at all that day. I was all cried out.
I went back to work the next week. I thanked everyone for their condolences. I tried to smile when I greeted customers, tried to be chatty as I cut hair.
I don’t remember much about that time.
I was numb, just going through the motions.
Then, as it had in the split-second the bullet went through Brent’s skull, my life instantly changed again.
A man from the Banner Life & Casualty Insurance Company showed up at CostClippers.
He needed to speak privately with me.
He had something very important to give me.
“Miss Duval, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said after I led him into the small break room in the back of the shop and closed the door. He was a short, fat man in a brown suit and skinny black tie. He had a round, kind face with pinkish cheeks. Like Brent, his eyes closed when he smiled. His name was Mr. Ray. He set his business card on the table and slid it toward me.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ray?”
“I hope to do something for you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket to pull out an envelope. He tapped the edge of the envelope lightly on the table. “I know that money can’t ease your pain, but you need to know that Brent had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy through his work. He also recently started paying additional premiums to increase that payout amount.”
I blinked at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He held out the envelope and nodded for me to take it.
I opened the envelope to find a check made out to me from the Banner Life & Casualty Company. When I saw the amount, my heart leaped into my throat. The tears returned. I pressed my fingers to my lips.
“I know money won’t ease your pain,” he said again. “But you were Brent’s beneficiary. He wanted to make sure you were taken care of in case anything ever happened to him.”
“I don’t know what to say… I mean… shouldn’t this go to his parents…”
“He named you his sole beneficiary,” he said.
I stared at the check, not fully convinced that it was real.
I blinked at him and he gave me a soft smile, then shook my hand and wished me well.
He left me alone, staring at a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
SANDY
Things happened very quickly after that. I quit my job and moved back into the apartment I had shared with Brent. I loved April and my parents, but I needed to be alone to do what I planned to do. I didn’t need anyone telling me revenge was wrong or worried about me getting hurt. I was going to do this, regardless of the consequences.
The landlord hadn’t touched the place because the rent was paid a month in advance. All our things were still there. Brent’s clothes and shoes, his cap collection, his shaving cream and razor, toothbrush, and cologne.
His guns were still there, too. He had kept a .9mm Beretta in the nightstand for home protection. Under the bed in a lockbox was stored a Bulldog .357 revolver, a .45 ACP Colt, and a small Ruger .380. I remembered Brent carrying the Ruger in a concealed holster on his belt. I wondered what might have happened if he had been carrying the gun the night he was killed.
I packed Brent’s belongings and sent them to his mom.
I kept his guns.
I called the female detective who had interviewed me after the shooting to ask if they had any leads. She was polite but curt. They were looking at a number of leads, but there was nothing that she could share with me.
I went online and found a private detective named Gerald Beamon. His website said he was a former city cop, retired after thirty-five years of service. I made an appointment to see him. We met at a coffee shop downtown.
Beamon was his sixties and dressed casually in a white polo shirt and beige khakis. He wore a pistol holstered on his belt and showed me his PI badge as we sat down. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was still on the force.
“So basically, you want me to find out what the police know about the men who killed your fiancé,” he said, scratching his chin. “Have you asked them yourself?”
“Yes,” I said. “They won’t tell me anything.”
He narrowed his eyes to study my face as if he were trying to assess my motives for wanting the information. When he discovered that he couldn’t read my mind, he asked, “Miss Duval, may I ask what you intend to do with this information?”
I slowly blinked at him. My expression was blank because that’s how I felt; blank, cold, empty.
I said, “That’s none of your business.” I reached into my purse and brought out five one-hundred-dollar bills. I set two of them on the table between us. “I’m asking you to make a phone call, Mr. Beamon. If you get the information I need, you get the rest.”