The soundof the second gunshot is still ringing in my ears and it takes me a moment to reorient myself. Slowly, it settles in. Jayce is sprawled over me, his weight pressing me into the cold wooden floor beneath me. There’s something warm and wet soaking into my side. I manage to twist my head enough to look and I’m shocked to see blood.
Not my blood, though. Nothing on me really hurts.
Fuck…it’s Jayce! Jayce is bleeding.
Did he get shot? Oh, God, where is he bleeding from?
I try to push at him to get him off so I can figure out where he’s been hurt.
“Why did you do that?” I sob, my voice breaking. “Jayce! You’re hurt…you’re not okay…”
He looks down at me and cups my face. Blood is streaming from his side, but he grits his teeth and ignores it.
“Don’t look there. Look at me. Only me.”
My chest heaves and my breathing is ragged. His calm words aren’t easing the worst of my panic like they usually would. All I can think is that he’s hurt, and he’s hurt because of me…
I’m shaking my head, but before I can get a word out, he keeps speaking. “I’m fine. You’re safe. That’s all that matters. Now breathe, Starling. Breathe with me.”
His words are clipped and leave no room for argument.
I slowly nod, but I’m still shaking with the mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through me.
Suddenly, there’s noise outside the penthouse, and then police come flooding in, shouting orders. I tear my gaze from Jayce and he moves off me so we can both sit up as the officers swarm around us. Jayce wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his uninjured side.
“Hands in the air!” one barks. “Drop your weapon!”
The man Jayce brought with him immediately complies. He lowers his weapon and carefully places it on the hardwood floor, then raises both hands. “Easy,” he says. “Harvey MacAvoy. Private investigator. My ID’s in my right pocket.”
Two officers move in fast. One kicks the gun farther across the floor while the other grabs the PI’s wrist and spins him toward the wall.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m not,” he replies steadily.
The officer digs into his pocket, pulling out a leather ID wallet.
Behind them, Leon groans loudly.
“Fuck!” he gasps, clutching his side as he writhes on the floor. Blood stains the fabric of his shirt where the bullet grazed him. “You shot me! What the hell!”
“Shut up,” Aubrey snaps from a few feet away. She’s on the floor too, her breathing tight with pain, one hand pressed against her thigh where blood is soaking through her slacks. Her face is pale, but her eyes are still burning with fury. “You’re making it worse,” she hisses at Leon.
An officer steps forward, his voice cold and commanding. “Both of you, roll onto your stomachs. Slowly.”
Leon lets out a strained whine. “I’ve been shot, man!”
“Roll over,” the officer repeats, louder this time. “Now.”
Leon swears under his breath but slowly turns onto his stomach with a groan. Aubrey’s movements are more controlled despite the pain as she rolls over onto the floor.
Their knives lie scattered across the hardwood, one near the couch, another near the coffee table. An officer carefully collects them with gloved hands.
“Knives secured,” he announces.
Across the room, the officer checking the P.I.’s identification looks back toward his partner.
“He’s clean,” he says. “Licensed private investigator. He’s the one who called this in.”
