A scream ripped through the air overhead, filled with feminine rage. I had just enough time to thinkEmma!before there was an almightysmash, knocking me forward. Shards of glass flew past my face, pricks of pain telling me some had embedded in my scalp. Beau groaned and slumped into me, and I wrenched myself out of his grip and spun on the hardwood to see Emma standing over him, chest heaving, an empty picture frame broken in her hands.
She smashed the wood over Beau’s head and then pulled back to kick him in his side.
Quick as a flash, he caught her ankle and tugged, and she went down hard on top of all that glass. Her scream of pain spiked my rage to a blinding point. Time seemed to speed up, reality coming through in flashes. I was on my feet, ripping Beau away from her. Then he was upright, too. We traded blows. I felt nothing. Heard nothing but the thrum of my own pulse in my ears, baying for blood.
He kicked at my ankle, and I tripped sideways, dragging him with me. We slammed into the railing. It let out an ominous groan and sagged forward, but held. We shoved off it. He punched me straight in the face, and the only reason he didn’t break my nose was because I managed to turn just enough to take the blow on the cheek.
“Duck!” Emma yelled.
I dropped. The butt of the gun swung so close to the top of my head that it brushed my hair before smashing into the side of Beau’s head. He fell sideways, catching himself on the railing. It let out another horrible groan and caved inward, taking Beau with it.
He felt himself start to fall and came out of his stupor, reaching back toward us. “Help!” he yelled, his voice laced with panic and terror.
I made no move to step forward, because fuck him. He would have pushed me over instead of trying to save me. Emma didn’t move, either, and together we stood side by side, stock-still, silently watching as the railing disintegrated beneath Beau’s weight.
I slipped my hand into Emma’s, threading our fingers together, and she squeezed me for all she was worth as Beau toppled into the darkness with a final shout of outrage and fury, disappearing from sight. We heard a smack, a bang, his pained yells echoing up the staircase as he tumbled down the open shaft, bouncing off other railings on the way down. A final, loudcracksplit the air, and then silence.
Emma yanked her hand out of mine, turning around to dry heave. I couldn’t blame her. That noise ... It had sounded slightly wet. Like a melon splitting. I stepped forward and peered over the edge of the shattered railing. Beau was sprawled on the first floor, eerily still, a pool of dark liquid spilling out around his head.
Dead.
He had to be.
I stepped quickly back and pulled Emma into my arms, cautious of the glass that might be embedded in her skin. My body shook with spent adrenaline, every inch of me throbbing in pain. Emma sobbed into my chest, the sounds more broken than when I’d pulled her out of the grave. It was one thing to suspect your husband was trying to kill you, another to have it confirmed. My heart ached for her. I couldn’t begin to imagine how broken and betrayed she felt.
It was a long time before she quieted. I held her all through it, whispering into her ear about how brave she’dbeen, how proud I was that she’d stood up to Beau like that. In between, I apologized, over and over again, for what she’d been through, because even if Beau was still alive, I knew he never would, andsomeoneshould, damn it.
Afterward, we called the state police, explaining the situation and why they shouldn’t involve the local cops. Shockingly, they’d agreed, and it made me wonder if someone else had already filed a complaint about Beau’s treatment of Emma. They arrived with paramedics from a different hospital than the one the Broadturns owned to transport the body and treat both of us. Emma needed urgent care because of her concussion and the glass, and she screamed when they tried to separate us. Once it was clear she wouldn’t calm down unless I was with her, I was allowed to climb into the back of the ambulance with her and an older detective named Sergeant Wade, who questioned us on the way.
He was no-nonsense, but not unkind, softening his tone when he spoke to Emma, pausing to write down what we said, the overhead lights reflecting off his thick glasses and shaved head. I don’t know if was because of his manner, or the fact that he was in plain clothes instead of a uniform, but I didn’t feel any worry answering his questions, didn’t feel like a criminal like I had the few other times I’d had to speak to police.
“That’s quite the story,” he said when we were done, lifting his gaze to mine.
“Please tell me you believe us,” I said, my heart in my throat.
“I do,” he said. “Because it’s too fucking crazy for you to have made it up.”
Chapter 9
Emma
A year later . . .
Don’t be mad!” I called from just inside the front door.
“I’m furious!” Noah responded from the kitchen.
I grinned, borderline obsessed with his sense of humor. I’d laughed more in the past year than I had the entire rest of my life, and it was one of the countless things I’d come to love about Noah.
He stood at the stove, his wide back to me as he stirred the pot on the burner. I stilled, momentarily distracted by the sight of his muscles straining against his white T-shirt. Damn, the man looked good. Always. All the time. It was a minor miracle we ever got out of bed, because even after nearly a year of dating, I was still ravenous for him.
The air stirred as I shut the door behind me, and I caught a whiff of what he was cooking, my eyes flashing wide. “Is that beef stew?”
He turned, his smile devilish. “Maaaybe.”
I shook my head. “Please tell me you’re not planning to put it through a blender again like last year.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His eyes sparked when he noticed my hands were hidden behind my back, and suspicion crept into his expression. “What am I mad about, exactly?”
