Runner-up 1

Evelyn Buchanan Falco peered over a now-sopping row of rosebushes, watching Genie clickety-clacking up the front drive, a pistol pushed rather unceremoniously into the small of her back by some pockmarked oaf with a bad comb-over.

“Finally,” she sighed, turning off the garden hose with a quick twist of her wrist.

Evelyn had spent half the day mindlessly watering Antonio’s damn floribundas, waiting for this moment. Now, as she peeled off her suede gardening gloves with the calm satisfaction of a surgeon who had just performed her umpteenth appendectomy, she knew the flash drive would soon be in her possession.

Of course, she hadn’t expected Genie to arrive with some lughead in tow, let alone at the business end of his .22. In fact, she had specifically told Genie to come alone. “Guess that’s what I get for hiring a half-baked starlet to do my dirty work,” Evelyn muttered.

Evelyn, who considered herself well grounded despite her familial pedigree, had never cared much for Genie, with her collagen-induced pout and nouveau riche affectations. But the girl had one thing going for her: She loathed her husband, Charlie Bonner, almost as much as Evelyn loathed her own.

Of course, there was a time -- and not all that long ago -- when Evelyn would have walked on hot coals for Antonio Falco. Sure, he could be a spineless schmuck sometimes, but Evelyn had loved him dearly despite his myriad flaws, foibles and frequent fabrications.

They had met in college, in the back row of Poli-Sci 101, where Antonio had taken to napping for long stretches while Evelyn had scribbled notes as though it were dictation. He had proposed after they swapped final papers -- he passed, she didn’t -- and she had happily accepted despite her father’s heartfelt admonishments. “That boy is trouble,” her father, Brennan Buchanan, had said with a shake of distinguished head.

How right dear old Brennan had been. Evelyn had known for quite some time now that her husband was stepping out on her. Come on, trying to pass off the nightly lipstick smudges as cocktail sauce, ketchup, strawberry Jell-O? Either Antonio had quickly become the world’s most voracious -- and messiest -- eater or he was having an affair. But she could deal with that. Evelyn could even deal with the seedy side-business Antonio has established with Charlie Bonner, blackmailing some of polite society’s biggest muckety-mucks with color footage of them cavorting with leggy Birds of Paradise. What she couldn’t deal with, however, was Antonio targeting her own flesh and blood.

One night, while not-so-innocently dusting the inside of Antonio’s home computer, Evelyn had stumbled on a file simply titled “Forrester.” That had caught her attention. With a quick double-click of the mouse, Evelyn had found herself watching her own baby brother, esteemed appellate court judge Forrester Buchanan, frolicking with a fully molted “bird.” Whether Antonio had bowed to Bonner’s bidding or folded under Palmieri’s unique form of persuasion, Evelyn didn’t know or much care. What mattered was that Antonio, despite her blind devotion to him, had sorely betrayed her -- and her family. And the Buchanans were nothing if not loyal to their own.

It hadn’t taken long for Evelyn to piece together the details of her husband’s plan. There were multiple e-mails in Antonio’s recycle bin with references to Forrester, a flash drive, a flight to Cabo. It had taken Evelyn even less time to devise her counterattack. She had used her own powers of persuasion to recruit Genie. And then there was Hermann Hauser. He was her ace in the hole. Evelyn nearly laughed as she recalled the way the hard-boiled ex-cop had swallowed her lonely, loose-lipped housewife bit -- hook, line and sinker. He thought he had her all figured out. Yet all it had taken was a few hand-delivered roses, a couple gin and tonics, and a discreet phone call to her father’s company, Buchanan Publishing -- which had rocketed Hauser to the top of the bestseller list -- for Evelyn to get a bead on HIM. Evelyn knew that, despite his coarse exterior and self-proclaimed skills of detection, Hauser would prove to be just another sucker for a damsel in distress.

But now wasn’t the time to reminisce. Evelyn backed deeper into the shrubs as Genie approached the Falcos’ home, whining at Lughead to quit wrinkling the sleeve of her new Dolce & Gabbana blouse.

The font door swung open. Evelyn barely had time to register her husband flanked by Bonner in the doorway before glimpsing two Silvio and Paulie types, guns drawn, marching swiftly up the drive. And behind them was Hauser, trotting stealthily across the street, moving in a military half-crouch, Baby Doll at the ready.

“What the heck is going on?” Evelyn almost asked aloud. Almost, that is, until someone yelled, “Gun!”

Evelyn ducked as one shot and then another splintered the suburban quiet.

Laura Benko is a psychotherapist and former reporter. She left journalism behind because “I couldn’t hack writing under a tight deadline. And now here I am doing it again!”