Page 200 of Into These Eyes
“You’re going to kill us? Over a botched investigation all those years ago? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He lets out an unamused chuckle. “Smart in some ways, dumb in others. It’s not about your mother’s murder. Such a one-track mind, Jamie. I simply can’t have anyone poking around in my business. But you’re right about where this is headed. Such a shame. It really is. You’re fucking beautiful.”
Hearing that from this monster’s lips peppers my skin with goosebumps.
“But you never got to see me, did you?” I whisper.
His eyes skate over the towel, down to my bare legs, then back to my face again.
“Drop it,” he commands.
I shake my head. “Not while you’re pointing that at me.”
The gun doesn’t waver. “Drop it,” he repeats.
I jut out my chin, my heart banging against my chest. “You can either shoot me now and perv at my corpse, or you can put that gun down and look at me while I’m alive. I suspect you’ve always wanted to see me naked.”
He licks his lips, the hesitation obvious. “Even when you were a teenager, I’d jerk off to fantasies of that body of yours.”
Fucking pervert.
I remain silent while I stare at him, waiting.
His answer comes when he lowers the gun, his grip still tight as it bumps against his thigh. Eyes ablaze, he gives me a sharp nod aimed at the top of the towel.
Trembling, I reach beneath my right armpit, and in one smooth motion, I yank the tucked corner free, fling it aside and raise the gun.
Aiming at his chest, I squeeze the trigger.
The explosion sends a shockwave through my arm and shoulder. Even with our close proximity, I’m unsure if I’ve hit him. He’s wearing black, so I can’t tell if he’s bleeding.
Then I see it. A small hole in the fabric over his chest.
But it doesn’t matter. He’s raising his gun.
Screaming, I launch myself at him, smashing my revolver into his nose as I arc my other arm down on the hand hold the gun.
He pulls the trigger. Apop, then a flare of heat sears my right hip, but I don’t have time to think, because as his legs buckle, he grabs my throat, and we both go down.
Sprawling on top of him, I try to twist out of his grasp, but it’s unrelenting, cutting off my airflow, crushing my trachea. In my scramble to get my legs beneath me, my knee slams his forearm to the tiles. The forearm connected to the hand holding his gun. Frantic, I grab for it, astounded when it slides it free without resistance.
As I stare down at him, his grip on my throat loosens, then drops away.
And I see it. Just the way Gavin described my mother. Jarrod’s going. He’s still here, but blood’s pumping from his chest wound, his skin ashen.
His eyes fasted on my bare breasts.
And that’s the last thing he sees. He’s gone.
When I look at his chest again, there’s barely a trickle seeping from the wound.
His heart’s no longer pumping. It’s as dead as his eyes. Though, I suspect, it always has been.
Gavin.
Leaping off Jarrod, keeping his gun in one hand, I grab the towel and almost bolt from the room. But my feet freeze. If I don’t go out there, Gavin’s still alive. If I do, I might discover he’s not. And I don’t know if I’ll survive that.
Turning to the vanity, I take my phone from the drawer and stop the recording.
