Page 77 of The Golden Hour

Lizzie mutters, “On my bedspread, really?”

“I’ll do it!” I gasp. “Please, just put the gun down!”

Vivian nods. “Put the call on speaker, if you don’t mind.”

I can barely breathe, oxygen struggling to reach my lungs through a vise of sheer terror. Fingers shaking, I punch in memorized numbers and hit Send. Three rings resonate in the room before the line opens with a click.

“Marlow’s Pizza, what can I getcha?”

For a second, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say.

“What the—” begins Franco, pushing away from the wall.

It comes to me in a flash.

“Spaghetti!” I yell, then dive toward the door.

I don’t see anyone’s reaction, because the window nearest Vivian explodes inward. Something hits the floor with a thump. There’s a low, whooshing noise and smoke pours toward the ceiling.

“Get down!” yells Enzo.

More glass shatters, this time when Franco—arm over his face—grabs the canister and chucks it back outside. But the damage is done. Everyone’s coughing, the room thick with acrid smoke.

“No! No! No!” screeches Vivian.

“Lights, Elizabeth!” hollers Enzo.

Seconds later the bedroom goes dark. Now or never. Holding my breath, I lunge for where I last glimpsed Meredith. Thankfully she’s not far, having dragged herself halfway to the door. I grab her, pressing my lips to her ear.

“Come with me,” I whisper, my throat on fire from the gas. I feel rather than see her nod. Under the cover of smoke and chaos, we make it into the hallway.

Into the collar of my shirt, I wheeze out, “I have her. We’re out of the room.” Then I haul Meredith to her feet and shove her toward the stairs. “Go!”

She runs awkwardly, her bound hands held to her chest. At the head of the stairs she glances back, her eyes widening when she sees me not following. She hesitates a moment, then disappears down the stairs. Smart woman. Smarter than me, that’s for sure.

I flatten myself to the ground outside the bedroom.

Gunshots and yelling form a gruesome symphony inside. I can’t hear the answering shots from the police, but I can see them—chips of wood and puffs of plaster raining through the air.

My legs itch madly with the need to run to safety, but I can’t. I’m glued to my spot by guilt and desperation. Eventually, the bullets taper off and stop, replaced by loud ringing in my ears. I edge closer to the doorway, knowing full well what I’m doing is foolish. Reckless. Crazy. But I have to try to get Lizzie to come with me.

Floodlights blast light through the bedroom’s windows, so intense the hallway is illumined too. My uncles curse. Lizzie cries out in pain. I almost do, too, and bite down hard on my hand to stay quiet. My eyes, still sensitive and streaming from the gas, feel about to burst.

From outside, a tinny, amplified voice calls, “This is the police! We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Franco. “The yard is crawling with SWAT. They’ve gotta be in the house by now. What are we going to do? How do we get out?”

Lizzie starts crying.

“Shut up,” snarls Enzo, then to his brother, “You told me Calli didn’t make any calls or stops on the way here!”

“She didn’t!”

“Then how the fuck is this happening?”

“You must have missed something,” Franco hisses back. “Did you even check her for a wire? She was asking all those questions for a reason, getting Vivian to spill her guts. We’re fucked. So fucked.”

“Mom?” whimpers Lizzie. “Mom, wake up! Oh my God, she’s bleeding bad. Do something!”

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