He held back when a familiar car parked down the street. It was Blake, one of the security guys connected to the show. Michael had called him yesterday and asked him to come to Beatrice Street for the duration of the shoot. He met him on the sidewalk and handed him a photo of Trent, the one Lacey had distributed in their initial meetings. “I want you to tell me if this guy shows up.”
“Is the cute blonde his fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé. I want to know if he comes anywhere near the set. I don’t want him near Emily.”
“You got it, boss.”
Michael liked Blake. He didn’t ask questions. He just did the job.
He waited a few minutes before walking into the house. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but Trent had rubbed him the wrong way since day one. Michael’s hackles hadn’t been so raised since the day he walked out of Jane Ashton’s basement into a nightmare.
The vision intruded once again, hurling him once again into that moment. He’d heard the shouting from downstairs, but because Jane ran a daycare, he thought she’d turned on the TV. He realized quickly enough it was her voice and that a man’s voice had joined the fray.
“Henry, don’t, please,” she’d begged. “Put the gun away. You’re scaring the children.”
Henry Ashton’s reply had been devoid of emotion. “Why did you leave, Janey? You were my everything. This is all your fault. Whatever happens here today, it’s all on your head. I’ll make you regret leaving me. I’ll make you pay.”
Aghast, Michael had raced up the basement stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible, knowing he was Jane’s only hope.
When his foot hit the fifth step, the shot rang out. He didn’t think he’d ever heard such a horrible, ear-cracking sound.
The children’s cries, erupting a second later, were worse. The sound of their screams would become the soundtrack of his night terrors.
Somehow, he’d kept going, walking carefully on Jane’s ceramic kitchen floor, knowing he needed to catch Henry unawares, and that he needed to do it soon. Michael hadn’t been contemplating heroism that day. Adrenalin had taken over his body. Although everything in him screamed at him to exit out the back door, he knew he had no choice. He might die there, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight, not if he could help Jane and those kids.
Upon seeing the scene for the first time, he’d realized there was no helping Jane. She’d been shot point blank in the chest and had slumped against the far wall. The light had already disappeared from her eyes. Her vacant orbs pinned him to his spot. Already they accused him for not coming to her rescue, for not knowing.
It had been Henry Ashton’s wail that roused Michael from his momentary stupor.
“No!” Henry tugged at his hair with his free hand, clutching the weapon in the other. He remained oblivious to Michael’s presence. “What have I done?”
Mumbling and trembling, the man aimed at the children.
Michael didn’t think. He just pounced on Henry from behind. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he managed to wrestle the gun away from the man and slid it into the corner furthest from the kids.
Even now, all he remembered was hitting him over and over again so Henry couldn’t retaliate. Michael knew he had to knock him senseless if he had any hope of getting the kids out of the daycare.
He couldn’t remember rallying the children, but he must have gotten them out of there. Others must have heard the screams and the shot, because within minutes Michael detected the distant wail of a siren. Lights flashed as a police car approached. Michael remembered swaying, trying so hard to impart his message before he passed out.
“She’d dead. Husband shot her. She’s dead.”
The police officer helped him to the sidewalk and everything went black for a few seconds.
“He’s in shock,” someone said, rousing him out of his daze, before throwing one of those silver blankets around his shoulders. He didn’t know about shock but he’d been cold, so cold his teeth had chattered. When the paramedic asked his name, Michael had laughed because the man resembled Ben Stiller.
The newspapers had called him a hero, a savior for helping children in need. One of the police officers on the scene called him “gutsy and noble.”
And yet Jane had died. No, she hadn’t just died. Her life had been ripped from her in a violent explosion of blood and gore.
When Michael sipped his coffee to steel himself, he realized his hands were shaking. “Fuck. Calm down.”
He tried those deep breathing techniques Dr. Moore had taught him. They made him feel like a pregnant lady at Lamaze class, but sometimes they actually helped him refocus his thoughts. They were about the only worthwhile coping mechanism the shrink had suggested. All the doctor seemed to want to do was rehash the ordeal over and over.
“How did you feel when you came upon Henry Ashton, Michael?”
“How the hell do you think I felt?”
Dumbstruck. Terrified. Emasculated.
