“I can’t talk about my case, Anna,” he said, turning to look out the window at the stormy lake. “Also, I’m represented by counsel, and you’re not supposed to talk to me without him here.”
None of this seemed possible. I followed his gaze to see a boat cutting across the waves, heading by the docks, no doubt seeking a fishing hole around the bend. “I understand, but I do need any records, research, or documents you have on Aiden’s case.” Of course, if Aiden’s case and Scot’s case were related as Nick suspected, I wouldn’t be able to trust anything I read. But something was better than nothing at this point.
“I don’t have any other records or documents here,” Scot said quietly.
“Then why arrest and charge Aiden Devlin? Where are the case files?” Sure, I could get the arrest warrant from the police station, but Scot had decided to charge Aiden, and there had to be enough documents to uphold that decision somewhere. None of this was making a bit of sense.
Scot frowned, his grizzly eyebrows dancing with the movement. “What do you mean? The trial folder has all of that information in it.”
I slowly shook my head. “No, it doesn’t. I couldn’t even find enough to ask that Aiden, I mean Devlin, be held over for bond.” If I was going to think of Aiden as a defendant, I should use his last name. At least around other people until I figured out what was going on.
Scot rubbed his whiskered chin. “That’s odd. I put together a complete trial notebook just to make sure.”
My blood started to thrum faster through my veins. “To make sure? Of what?”
For the first time, he drew back. He lost the overwhelmed look, his gaze sharpening and making him appear more like the guy who’d hired me. The one who’d made Supreme Court Justices sit up and take notice. “Anna, get out of this case. Mine and definitely Devlin’s. Trust me.” He leaned forward and grabbed my arm, his grip digging deep and causing pain. “If you have to quit the prosecutor’s office, then do it. This is too big for all of us.”
Chills clacked down my back. “Scot. You’re scaring me.”
“Good. The day is really done here.”
What did that mean? I opened my mouth to answer, to ask more questions, when the entire wall of windows facing the lake crashed in, jagged shards of glass exploding in every direction.
Scott yanked me toward him and to the plush carpet as a booming pattering cut through more glass from the lake. The only thing out there was that boat I’d seen. Bullets shot from the boat lodged into the wall and front door, splintering the wood into jagged pieces. My throat closed, and I covered my head, crying out.
I didn’t know much about automatic gunfire, but this sounded deeper than the other day. Glass fell all around me, and I stiffened head to toe, trying to stay as low as possible on the ground.
Would they beach the boat and run up the hill?
I hadn’t looked to see how many people were on the boat. How many people were shooting at us? Could we get free? The front door seemed so far away.
Cotton from the furniture puffed all around, dropping gently onto my hands as they protected my head.
The cacophony of bullets continued, and framed paintings dropped to the ground. A frame hit my thigh, and I yelped, scrambling away from the windows and over glass. Something slippery caught my hands, and I slid, falling flat on my face. I managed to turn my head at the last second, and my cheekbone took the impact instead of my nose. Pain rippled along the entire side of my face and lodged behind my eye socket.
The sound was deafening, and even so, I could hear the blood rushing between my ears. Clutching my head, I rolled as close as I could to the demolished sofa, trying to stay low.
Then quiet.
Deadly silence pounded into my very bones. A picture near the front door crashed to the floor, and I cried out.
Were they coming? I turned my head. “Scot?”
No answer.
Hot needles pricked my skin from inside my body, adrenaline let loose. “Scot.” Staying on my belly, I turned to see him near the fireplace. It took a second for the sight to register. “S-Scot?” My voice wavered. He lay on his stomach, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and his face covered in blood. So much blood that it blanketed the floor.
I gagged. A second ago, I’d slipped in his blood. “Scot?” I tried again, but his eyes were open, staring at me blankly. A sob caught in my aching throat, and I used my elbows to pull myself toward him through the already sticky mess, my legs dragging behind me. The smell, coppery and rusty, made my stomach lurch.
I reached him and felt for a pulse, even though I knew I wouldn’t find one. Catching my breath, I shoved him over to perform CPR, trying to keep as low as possible. The second I began compressions, blood squirted from several holes in his chest and abdomen.
Scot was dead. There was no way to bring him back.
Safety. I had to get to safety and call for help. Swallowing down bile, I turned and crawled toward the window. If they were coming, I would need to stand and run. Holding my breath, I grasped the edge of the sill with my bloody hands and lifted enough to look down at the lake.
The beach was empty, and the lakefront clear. The boat had taken off.
My entire body shook. Wind blasted inside the broken windows, and more glass dropped. I dodged out of the way and dropped to my butt, surveying the destruction. Then I did a quick survey of my arms and legs. Everything hurt, but I couldn’t find any bullet holes.
