I saw the decision in her eyes a split second before her finger moved to the trigger—that final neural connection that transforms thought into irrevocable action. Time seemed to compress, my senses heightening as they always did in moments of extreme danger. I started to move, to go for the weapon, but I was a fraction too slow.
I felt the impact before I heard the sound—a hot poker driving into my shoulder, spinning me backward with its force. My back slammed against the cabin wall, legs buckling as fire spread through my chest and arm. Warm wetness bloomed across my shirt front, the copper tang of blood filling my nostrils.
"That's better," Sarah said, her voice unnaturally calm after her previous outburst. She stepped forward, studying me with detached interest as I slumped against the wall, pressing my hand to the wound in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. "Now you can watch the ending I wrote. The one where you lose everything."
She pivoted smoothly, redirecting the gun toward Tommy. The boy shrank back against the chair, his small face white with terror, tears streaming silently down his cheeks.
"You ruined everything," she told him, her voice conversational despite the madness burning in her eyes.
"Sarah," I gasped, struggling to push myself upright against thewall, my hand slipping in my own blood. "He's just a child. Your child."
She laughed—a hollow, broken sound devoid of humor. "He was never my child. He was a prop. A necessary element for the perfect family I was creating." She stroked Tommy's hair with her free hand, the gesture perversely gentle while the gun remained pointed at his chest. "But props can be replaced."
Tommy's eyes found mine over Sarah's shoulder, wide with terror but also something else—a desperate trust that I wouldn't abandon him. The same look I'd seen countless times in my career, from victims who believed I could save them when no one else could. I had never failed them. I would not fail him.
I gathered every ounce of strength remaining in my battered body, ignoring the screaming pain from my wounds, the lightheadedness from blood loss, the trembling weakness in my limbs. With a final, desperate surge, I launched myself from the wall, driving my good shoulder into Sarah's back.
She staggered forward with a surprised cry, the gun jerking upward as she fought to maintain her balance. I clamped my hand around her wrist, forcing the weapon away from Tommy, driving her backward into the rickety coffee table. It collapsed beneath our combined weight, sending us sprawling across the worn floorboards in a tangle of limbs and desperation.
Sarah fought with the strength of madness, her nails raking across my face as she struggled to bring the gun to bear. I locked my fingers around her wrist, applying pressure to the nerve points that might force her to release the weapon. Blood from my shoulder wound slicked our grip, making it nearly impossible to maintain control.
We rolled across the cabin floor, crashing into the base of Tommy's chair, sending it skidding several inches across the wooden boards. Sarah's knee drove into my wounded shoulder, sending a wave of agony so intense that my vision momentarily whited out. In that second of weakness, she wrenched her arm free.
The gun discharged with a deafening crack.
Tommy cried out—a sound that cut through me more painfullythan any bullet could. The cabin fell into sudden, shocked silence, the echo of the gunshot fading against the wooden walls.
I scrambled to my knees, ignoring my own injuries as I lurched toward Tommy. The bullet had hit him in the abdomen. Blood was gushing out, and he looked at me, terrified.
"It's okay," I whispered, working frantically at the ropes binding his wrists with blood-slippery fingers. "I've got you. You're going to be okay." The words came automatically, professionally, even as my heart hammered with terror at the sight of his blood.
Sarah had recoiled to the far wall, the gun hanging limply from her fingers as she stared at Tommy's wound with an expression of horrified fascination. For the first time since I'd known her, her face showed a single, unified emotion rather than the fractured masking of her multiple personas. She looked utterly lost, as if the script she'd been following had finally, irrevocably shattered.
I freed Tommy's hands and gathered him carefully against me, my blood mingling with his as I pressed my palm against his wound. His small body trembled against mine, his tears hot against my neck as he clung to me with desperate strength.
"I didn't mean—" Sarah began, her voice small and uncertain. Then her expression shifted, calculations resuming behind her eyes as she tightened her grip on the gun once more. The moment of genuine horror had passed, replaced by the cold pragmatism of a survivor assessing her remaining options.
Outside, the footsteps had reached the cabin door. Sarah's eyes fixed on the entrance, then returned to me and Tommy, the gun rising once more in her blood-streaked hand.
Chapter 55
I rantoward her with one sole purpose: to knock her back against the wall and get the gun from her hand. As I leaped, Tommy made his move. I caught glimpses of his movements through the chaos—as Sarah was forced up against the wall, and then fought back, pushing me away. As we ended up in a battle on the floor, the gun flew away. While Sarah and I grappled across the cabin floor, Tommy's fingers had found my burner phone that had fallen out of my pocket. The dial clicked as he turned it—three deliberate numbers that seemed to echo in the cabin despite our violent struggle.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" The operator's voice carried across the room, tinny but distinct through the speaker.
Tommy's voice quavered, barely audible over the sounds of Sarah and me fighting. "My mom shot me." The words came out small and frightened, yet determined. Then he ran to the bathroom and shut the door.
I saw the flash of confusion in Sarah's eyes when she heard him speak—not just at the realization that he'd reached the phone, but at his words.
Sarah realized what he was doing. Her focus had been socompletely on me, on our violent struggle, that Tommy's actions had registered only peripherally until that moment. I watched her expression transform from rage to something worse—a cold, calculating hatred that chilled me more than her previous frenzy.
"You ungrateful little—" she snarled, shoving herself away from me with unexpected force. She ran after him, kicking open the bathroom door. I heard her speak to Tommy, and then I set off after her. Inside the bathroom, I lunged for her, fingers grasping at her shirt, her hair, anything to keep her from reaching Tommy. My hand closed around her ankle, and she stumbled, but not before swinging the gun toward me with deliberate aim.
The second shot exploded through the cabin with deafening finality. White-hot pain blossomed in my chest as the bullet tore through me, sending me crashing back against the wall. Blood spread across my shirt in a warm, wet rush as my legs gave out beneath me.
Through the haze of pain and encroaching shock, I heard the operator's voice become more urgent.
"Hello?" The voice on the phone cracked. "Are you there?"
