I sat in the car for several more minutes, paralyzed by indecision.
Until I heard the crack of a gunshot. And then another.
It had come from inside the house.
Nicolas wouldn’t have needed to use a gun. Which meant someone else had used it. On him.
Hardly aware of what I was doing, I sprinted from the car and up the driveway. The front door was unlocked, but I barely noticed as I wrenched it open. I would’ve kicked it down if I’d had to.
Another gunshot echoed through the house, and tears blurred my eyes, hot and sudden.
Was that the shot that had ended Nicolas’s life?
It had come from below.
The basement.
My eyes raked wildly over the hallway. No photos on the walls. No artwork. Just a neat row of men’s shoes—all the same size—lined up by the entrance.
I began wrenching open doors, searching for a stairway that would lead down to Nicolas.
Was he okay?
Was he dying?
Was he afraid?
I hesitated in the kitchen long enough to pull a butcher knife from the block.
Bringing a knife to a gunfight. Never a good idea. But it was better than nothing.
Next to the pristine marble kitchen island was a door. It was ajar. And when I crept closer, I could see it led down into the basement.
When I got close, I could hear—very faintly—a man gasping in pain.
Nicolas.
How I could be certain of that, I didn’t know. But I knew.
And the sound of his pain banished everything else from my mind.
Brandishing the knife like a villain from an ’80s slasher flick, I ran down the steps—straight into the waiting arms of danger.
Nicolas was in pain. He was wounded.
And nothing else mattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO || COLE
Ishouldn’t have come. For one thing, getting shot twice in the chest at point-blank range really hurts.
A lot.
Morgan Peterson, an unassuming, middle-aged white man, hadn’t displayed any fear when I descended the stairs. Instead, he had been waiting for me with a gun in his hands. He must have heard me break the lock on the front door and, instead of reaching for his phone to call the police, he’d grabbed his handgun instead.
Mr. Peterson’s face split into a wide, leering grin as I reached the bottom of the stairs. “You picked the wrong house to rob.”
His voice sounded all wrong. It was… empty. Devoid of fear—or any emotion at all. And despite the grin, his eyes were cold and flat.
