Page 142 of Putting Out
“I’m not an idiot. I know what I did. I killed someone. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot!”
“I’m real sorry about that. I just want this to end peacefully. You could say it was self-defense.”
Reilly turned her head and watched his expression. He seemed to be considering it.
“Neville did stab Kenny. He could have gone for me next. Maybe you are a hero. Maybe you did save my life.”
He nodded and she could see the cool handsome man with the all-American good looks was replaced by someone who was clearly lost in his delusions. Mentally separate from the rest of the world. Reilly felt the fear even more powerfully as she tried to shift her feet forward with an inch or two of give between her ankles.
“I did do that,” he said more to himself as he let her shuffle out of his grip. His arms fell to his sides, the gun hung loose in his hand.
“I did stop him from hurting you. He could have hurt you. He wasn’t right in the head.”
“Thank you,” Reilly said as she continued to move an inch at a time away from him. “Thank you for everything.”
“No,” Mark told her. “Thank you for being you. For being someone I could love. But I told you. My love is forever. I can’t let you go without me.”
The words seemed to float on an easy breeze until Reilly was able to understand what they meant.
“Drop!”
She didn’t know who said it, but it was so simple to let her knees buckle and fall to the ground. A shot blasted over her head. Then another one. Then another one.
It took her several moments of uncontrollable shaking with her face pressed into the dirt until she was willing to lift her head. Willing to test her eyes to see if she could open them to see. Willing to acknowledge she was alive.
“Reilly! Jesus!”
She felt Luke stumble toward her. He fell to his knees and rolled her so she could see his face.
“I’m alive?”
“Yeah. You’re alive.” He helped her sit up and she could see a few feet away the man she thought had been sent to help her. Blood pooled out from underneath his body and she looked away. The detective was lowering his gun.
“He shot him,” Reilly stated numbly.
Luke craned his neck over his shoulder at where the detective stood, calmly pulling at his long mustache.
“I don’t know your name, but we’re naming our first born after you,” Luke told him.
“It’s Osborne. Detective Osborne Montgomery.”
Luke grimaced.
“Okay, maybe just the middle name,” he whispered to her.
Reilly laughed. She laughed so hard it was difficult to tell when she stopped laughing and started crying. But then Luke picked her up and she knew that it was going to be all right.
