“You came,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”
She eyed him with her bestfederal prosecutorstare, which could strike fear into the toughest defendants—and sometimes defense lawyers. She held up her evening bag. “I have pepper spray in my purse, and Ian knows I’m here with you.”
“Your knight in shining armor.” He fairly spit the words out, telling her he might not really regret what he did. Or he was just jealous of Ian’s height.
She resisted the urge to get into an argument with him. “We’re not here to talk about Ian. We’re here because you said my parents’ deaths weren’t an accident. But there was never talk of anything else. Do you have information?”
Before he could answer, a door for staff along the side of the ballroom opened, drawing their attention. A man wearing a black ski mask entered. Around six feet tall, he was slender and wore all black. His gaze locked on Junior. He lifted his arm and aimed a gun at Junior.
She gasped.
“No, no, please!” Junior cried out.
“You messed with the wrong person.” The man planted his feet and fired two rounds.
The retorts erupted like explosions. Malone jumped with each bullet that struck Junior. They pierced the linen fabric of his shirt, and blood spread across his chest.
His eyes wide, he collapsed on the carpet, lying spread-eagle on his back.
Her breath trapped in her chest, Malone lifted her gaze again to the gunman. She couldn’t just stand there. She needed to do something. But what?
She wanted to move. To act, but her body remained frozen.
Did she check on Junior? Try to talk the shooter down?
The gunman marched across the room toward her, his gun still aimed, now at her, the firearm glinting in the overhead light.
She took a step back, dropping her purse and putting her hands up. “Please, don’t shoot me. I don’t know what’s going on. Junior didn’t tell me anything.”
He stopped in front of her with a thump of his boots and eyed her for a long time, those dark, almost black eyes burning into her through the opening in the mask. Keeping his gun trained on her, he dropped down on his knees and dug through Junior’s pockets until he found a phone. He pocketed it.
He stood and stepped toward Malone.
She lurched back, but he grabbed her raised hand with his gloved fingers. She wanted to jerk away, but he still had the gun trained on her. He placed the weapon in her hand and wrapped her fingers around it.
After a long look, some sort of warning in his eyes that she couldn’t decipher, he turned and walked away.
“Stop!” she shouted, cupping the gun and lifting it.
He kept walking.
She checked the safety to confirm it was still off. She aimed the barrel at him. Dropped her finger to the trigger.
No. This isn’t right.
She wasn’t a killer. She couldn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Was that what he was counting on when he’d handed her the gun? That she couldn’t shoot him?
He stepped over the threshold, and the door closed behind him with a solid thump.
Should she run after him?
No. Junior. She dropped down next to him and felt for a pulse. Nothing. But she shouldn’t be surprised with his eyes open and rolled back.
No.If there was still hope, she couldn’t let him die.
She laid the gun on his belly, started CPR, and screamed for help.
The front door burst open.
