Page 94 of Skin and Bones

The first drops of rain began to fall as Brooks forced me onto the deck, cold pinpricks against my bare arms. The darkening sky mirrored the desperation of the moment, the distant rumble of thunder like a celestial warning. Wind whipped across the water, carrying the scent of salt and storm, as he moved backward toward the stairs leading to the dock, keeping me in front of him as a human shield.

“Keep moving,” he hissed, the gun pressing painfully against my temple, each step taking us farther from help, closer to whatever end he had planned for me.

Through the gathering rain and gloom, I spotted movement at the far end of the dock—a shadow slipping between the pilings. Dash. Our eyes met across the distance, his filled with fierce determination that steadied something in me. In that heartbeat of connection, I knew what I had to do.

I sucked in a deep breath, tensed every muscle in my body, and then did the opposite of what instinct demanded. Instead of fighting, I surrendered—went completely limp, dropping my full weight downward like a puppet with cut strings.

The sudden deadweight caught Brooks off guard. He staggered, his grip loosening as he tried to maintain his balance on the rain-slicked deck. The gun shifted away from my head for just a fraction of a second—the smallest window of opportunity, but the only one I’d get.

The crack of a gunshot split the air like thunder, echoing across the harbor. Brooks staggered backward, his face a mask of shock as he clutched his shoulder, crimson blooming between his fingers. The gun clattered to the deck as he fell, skidding across the wet boards away from his reach. I scrambled away on hands and knees, my palms scraping against rough wood, my dress a beacon in the gathering darkness. The rain was falling harder now, plastering my hair to my face and neck, washing away the scent of Brooks’ cologne that still clung to my skin.

Officers swarmed from every direction—from the restaurant, from the parking lot, from positions I hadn’t even realized were manned. In seconds, Brooks was surrounded, the predator becoming prey.

Dash reached me first, holstering his weapon as he knelt beside me on the rain-slicked deck. His eyes scanned me frantically, looking for injuries, his hands hovering over me as if afraid to touch.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

“Probably not,” I managed to say between chattering teeth, my whole body trembling not just from the cold rain but from the aftershocks of adrenaline and fear. “It probably won’t be too long until I have a total meltdown. Just FYI.”

“Completely understandable,” he said.

The rain was falling in earnest now, silver sheets illuminated by flashes of distant lightning. Behind us, officers secured Brooks, who was cursing through clenched teeth as they handcuffed him despite his wounded shoulder. His expensive shirt was ruined, blood and rain mingling to create a macabre watercolor.

“It’s over,” Dash said, finally touching me, his arm steady around my waist as he helped me to my feet. His warmth seeped through my rain-soaked dress, an anchor in the storm. “You’re safe.”

The undercover officers approached, the woman offering me her jacket. “That was quick thinking,” she said. “Giving us the signal, then dropping like that.”

I nodded, though in truth it had been pure instinct rather than careful planning. The weight of what had just happened—how close I’d come to death—began to settle over me like a physical thing.

“We got his confession on the wire,” Dash said, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “Everything about Elizabeth, Vanessa, the missing girls—all of it.”

I watched as they led Brooks toward a waiting patrol car, his once-immaculate appearance now disheveled, blood staining his expensive shirt. He caught my eye as they guided him past, his face a mask of hatred.

“This isn’t over,” he said, his voice weak but still menacing.

“Yes, it is,” Dash replied, stepping between us. “Jason Brooks, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Mabel McCoy and for the murders of Elizabeth Calvert and Vanessa Garfield.”

Things were kind of a blur after that. Outside, the rain had intensified, drumming on the roof of the car in a steady rhythm. I remember Dash putting me in his Tahoe and getting in next to me, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled into my bones.

“You’re in shock,” he said gently. “Just breathe.”

I nodded again, focusing on the steady in and out of my breath, on the solid presence of him beside me.

“Take me home,” I said, laying my head back on the seat. “I’m stick a fork in me done.”

When we got back to the house we were greeted with the Silver Sleuths, hovering on the porch as they watched Dash help me out of the car.

“Honey, you’re the color of old oatmeal,” Deidre said, pressing a warm hand to my cheek. “Shock will do that. You need a blanket and something warm to drink.”

“And a shot of bourbon,” Bea added, appearing at my elbow with suspicious timing and a glass of amber liquid. “Medicinal purposes only.”

“Stand back, stand back,” Walt said. “Let the poor girl get in the house and settle before you start hounding her.”

“He was worried sick,” Dottie whispered to me. “We all were. We were listening to the whole thing on Walt’s police scanner. You were so brave.”

“I didn’t feel very brave,” I said. “I felt like a big fat chicken when he held that gun to my head.”

“I have half a mind to get my revolver and go finish him off,” Bea said, looking at Dash. “Too bad you didn’t kill him.”

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