Page 78 of The Golden Hour

“Serves her right for waving a gun out the window,” snaps Franco. “She got too big for her britches. Idiot thought she was bulletproof.”

“Shut your mouth,” growls Enzo, “or I’ll shut it for you.”

Franco’s voice only rises, panic mounting with every word. “Vivian screwed us over big-time. Big-time. And you know what? I’m not going down this way. I’m not taking the fall for you psychos.”

“Don’t even think about it, brother.”

I’ve never heard Enzo’s voice so cold, so empty, and I shuffle back from the doorway on instinct, knowing something bad is about to happen.

“Fuck you,” says Franco. There’s a burst of movement in the room. Glass crunching, shifting.

“No, don’t—” Lizzie’s words are interrupted by a gunshot and a thunk as something—someone—hits the floor. I cover my mouth with my hands to stifle my whimper.

Enzo spits loudly. “Coward.”

Lizzie’s tears intensify, then cut off abruptly. My body goes cold. No… Then she sniffs loudly, and I sag against the wall with relief.

“I know you don’t like guns, kid, but take this. I thought if we could get to the garage...” Enzo sighs heavily. “That time has passed. They’ll be on us soon. Let’s give ’em everything we got on our way out.”

Lizzie sniffs again. Her voice comes soft and hoarse, “You murdered Anthony and Franco. My daddy. All three of your brothers. Who does that? I’d never hurt Ellie or Calli, no matter how mad I was at them.”

Silent, man-shaped shadows spill into the hallway from the stairs. Narrow red beams flash over the walls, over me. My extremities are mostly numb, but a trickle of adrenaline allows me to lift my hands over my head. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.

“You told me David raped Calli.” Lizzie’s voice is stronger now. “You said killing him was the right thing to do. But he loved her, didn’t he? They loved each other.” She pauses. “I hurt good people because you told me to.”

“Come off it, kid. You like it—no, you love it. You’re just like me.” He snorts. “And you can stop it with the my poor daddy shit. You know damned well I’m your father.” There’s a small pause, then, “Elizabeth, stop right now. Don’t make me shoot you!”

The first set of boots pass me, then another. They move fast, so fast, a dark wave surging into the bedroom.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“Drop the knife! Don’t move! Hands up!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Three down, one in custody—”

I don’t hear anything else.

40

One Week Later

My eyes closed, I listen to the steady beep, beep of the monitor, underlaid with the low hum of an air-conditioning unit near the window. Doors open and close, muffled by walls. Voices rise and fade—nurses and doctors, moving with purposeful footsteps. Tireless in their commitment to saving lives.

Even hers.

Although she’s out of the woods, I haven’t left her side. I want to be the first face she sees when she wakes. I want her to know she isn’t alone.

The sun rises. There are other visitors. Some new, some familiar. Doctors, detectives. Shift changes for the armed officer stationed outside the door. Even handcuffed to a hospital bed and recovering from a twelve-hour surgery, she’s considered a flight risk.

The sun sets. I sleep off and on, my head pillowed on a sweatshirt, my legs beneath a thin blanket. Night nurses come in intervals, work quietly, then leave. I sleep again, lulled by the beep, beep of her heart.

When the sun has begun another ascent, I jolt awake at an unfamiliar noise.

She’s coming around.

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