Page 76 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I no longer feel my pain. I am pain. Bright, white, all-encompassing pain. It doesn’t matter. I’m so close.
I army crawl with my left arm and leg to the closet door and yank it open with clenched teeth. The closet, two floors, is directly beneath the attic, and the voices are louder, clearer, here as they travel through the ductwork.
The man isn’t Tate. And he’s not Tristan. That much I can tell. But whoever this prick is, he was working with Tate, and he’s telling Emily she has to die.
The box is in view now, high on the closet shelf. My vision blurs and a thousand tiny pinpricks of light explode as I lean against the wall and push myself to my feet.
I catch a sidelong glimpse of my profile in the mirror affixed to the closet door and gasp, heart thumping because, for a moment, I think someone’s in the room with me. I turn and study my reflection. Blood mats my hair, dirt streaks my face, and my right shoulder juts out in a grotesquely distorted hump. But I’m fixated on my eyes: they stare back at me with the same haunted look I remember from the weeks and months immediately after I was attacked.
In the attic, Emily sobs loudly.
I tear my gaze away from the mirror. I prop my right leg against the wall, trying to keep my weight off my ankle, as I stretch up onto my left toes, grit my teeth, and try to reach for the safe on the shelf with both arms. It’s no use. My right arm goes no higher than my damaged shoulder. I fall back to my heels and lean against the wall to steady myself so I can try again.
I push off from the wall and reach for the shelf again. My right arm dangles uselessly as I wrap the fingers around the handle of the heavy gun safe and pull it forward to the edge of the shelf.
I tip it toward me and let gravity do the work while I hang on tight. My arm wrenches down like the rectangular box weighs a thousand pounds. I stop it inches before it hits the floor and lower it gently. Then I kneel, my busted right ankle splayed to the side, and fumble with the lock with my stiff, cold fingers.
Overhead, the thud of quick footsteps and a loud thump sound. The beginning of a struggle? I curse under my breath, miskey the code, and have to start over. I race through the sequence again, my ears trained on the ceiling above my head. Finally, I enter the right digits and the lock opens with a click.
I yank the lid open and lift out the gun. It’s heavy in my shaking hand. It’s loaded, I know. Robert insists I keep it locked away. Our compromise is that I do so with a magazine loaded, the bolt action locked open, and the safety engaged.
I wobble to my feet, rack the bolt to chamber a round, and I flick off the safety. Given my condition, I’ll never make it upstairs in time.
I’ll be lucky to get off one shot before I collapse. One shot to create a distraction and give Emily a fighting chance. Shooting blind, through two floors of solid wood, I’m unlikely to hit either of them—but there’s no way to guarantee it. My finger finds the trigger and I hesitate, weighing the risk.
Another scream pierces the air, making my decision for me. I aim up at the far corner of the closet ceiling and steel myself for the pain of the recoil. I squeeze the trigger.
Thirty-Eight
Tristan
* * *
The thick silence stretches over the interrogation room. Loretta chews the lipstick off her lower lip. Graham cracks his knuckles. I listen to the thump of my heart in my chest. I’m about to give voice to my fear that I led Tate to Dr. Wilde. I’m responsible for Giselle Ward’s death, even if I’m not legally culpable. And if anything happens to Emily or Alex, their blood will be on my hands, too.
My throat closes at the thought of Emily. My wife, my world, my heart. If Wilde hurts her?—
Dunn’s radio crackles. He’s been patched into the police department’s encrypted channel in North Carolina. “Officers on the property. Single shot fired from within the house.”
Shot fired? By the police? Wilde? One of the women? The clipped, cryptic message causes a frenzy of synapses to fire in my brain.
“I can’t lose her,” I croak. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray—if repeating please, please, please, can be considered a prayer.
Emily
* * *
“The window, Emily. It’s time.” His voice is flat. So is his expression.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“The note’s already written,” he tells me like that’s what’s holding me back. “It sounds just like your voice. I studied your books, you know? On top of all the trauma and guilt over Cassie’s death, when you found out Tristan killed Tate, it was too much. The last straw.”
“Tristan?” I shake my head, bewildered. “You said you killed Tate.”
“Of course. But I can’t be arrested. I have more work to do. Framing Tristan was too good to resist. He’ll go down for Giselle Ward’s murder and his brother’s. There’s a poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer the question. Instead I ask one of my own. “Work? You mean, therapy?”
