The shooter fired again. And again. He was panicking, firing wildly.
Then there was a loudoomphas the guy tripped and fell.
I sprinted to close the distance between us, my lungs burning. As he rolled over and tried to get up, I launched myself at him. Drove him into the ground.
The gun flew from his hand, skittering out of sight on the forest floor. We rolled, grappling. The guy was strong, but I hadn’t run that obstacle course a thousand times in the last couple of months for nothing.
A fist connected with my jaw. I returned it, felt cartilage give under my knuckles. The shooter tried to get free and scramble away, but I caught him and slammed him back down.
The guy’s arm raised. A blade glinted in his hand.
The knife came at my ribs. I twisted, felt it scrape across my side instead of plunging in. I caught the wrist holding the knife, wrenched hard. Bone cracked, and the shooter screamed behind the mask, the sound muffled and distorted.
I pulled the knife free and didn’t hesitate.
The blade drove into the shooter’s side, finding the soft space between his ribs. Once. Twice. The body beneath me went rigid, then slack. I stayed on top of him for a moment, breathing hard. Then I reached down and pulled off the mask.
Nox Woodson stared up at nothing, his eyes already glazing over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Keira
“Deputy Marsh,do you have anything else to add that you haven’t told me already?” Owen said. “Anything at all about today’s events?”
“No, Sheriff. I don’t.”
The interview room was small and windowless, with beige walls that had gone dingy over the years and a table bolted to the floor. I’d been in this room countless times before, but only a couple of times on this side of the table. I wasn’t a fan.
Owen reached forward and pressed the button on the recording device. “Concluding interview with Deputy Keira Marsh at 20:47 hours.” The red light blinked off.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face, looking as exhausted as I felt. “Dean’s waiting in my office. Meet me there. We need to talk.”
“We just spent the last hour talking.”
Owen gave me a sardonic look. “Yes, on camera. Now it’s time for you and Dean to explain what the hell is really going on.”
Without another word, I got up and left the room, heading down the hallway toward Owen’s office. The stationwas buzzing with activity, people moving with the kind of heightened energy that came after a major incident.
I kept my eyes forward, avoiding the curious glances of my coworkers as I passed. I felt sick. Tired to my bones.
Woodson was dead. The very thing I’d wanted. I’d wantedrevenge.
But this feeling in my gut wasn’t triumph.
Dean and I had been having fun just a few hours ago, acting almost like a real couple. Now the dress Dean had bought me was evidence, sealed in a bag somewhere in this building. Covered in Phelan’s blood. There’d been no way to save him, though I’d tried.
I suppressed a shudder.
Reaching Owen’s office, I went inside and shut the door behind me. Dean stood up from the chair where he’d been sitting.
“Hey, sweetness. I missed you.” He came to me immediately and pulled me into his arms, kissing my temple and squeezing me against him almost too tight. But it was such a relief. The sheriff had separated us to take our interviews, doing everything by the book. But I’d needed Dean.
He’s not yours, I reminded myself.He doesn’t love you. But right now, I needed his comfort.
“You good?” His voice was low.
No. No, I’m not.
