For the first time, I saw pure, cold fear in her eyes, and it had nothing to do with me. It was the fear of being alone, of being the villain in your own kid’s story.
She pressed the gun against her own chest, almost like she was hugging herself with it. “You’re just like the rest of them. You think I’m crazy. You all think I’m crazy.”
It was only then, with her attention turned inwards, that I remembered my phone on the edge of the sink. I moved my shaking hand toward it in slow motion, as if afraid even the thought of movement would snap her back to reality and reset the whole nightmare. But before I could actually touch it, there was a sudden, unmistakable voice from my room, “Drop the gun.” The words were low, clipped, and male, with a professional calm that made it all the more terrifying.
Detective Ramos.
In that split second, I realized he hadn’t listened to me and had come anyway and must be standing in my room, which I couldn’t see because I was in the bathroom. I didn’t dare look away from Stacy, not even to check if he was alone or if backup had come with him. I kept my eyes on the mirror, tracking her every move, and willed the universe to let this be over.
Stacy jerked at the sound, her entire body tensing like a rabbit about to break for the underbrush. The gun came up again, wilder this time, pointed not at me but at the doorway of my bedroom.
Two loud gun shots rang out in quick succession—one flat, metallic clap, louder than anything I’d ever heard, and then asecond, impossibly louder, that rang in my skull like my brain was a gong. I dropped to the bathroom floor, knees and elbows smacking hard against the tile, and curled in on myself the way you do when you see a car crash about to happen and you’re powerless to stop it.
The world shrank to the twin concussions echoing in my ear canals. I lay there, paralyzed, waiting for the third shot, or the fourth, or the inevitable pain that would tell me I’d been hit, too. But instead, there was just the sharp, chemical tang of gunpowder, a patter of footsteps, and then the sound of a grown man’s voice very close to my head, but all I heard were those pops over and over again.
44
ADAM
I hitthe curb outside the Windsor Arms, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, the engine still running. The sight of the red and blue lights pulsing—six patrol cars, an ambulance, two black official city SUVs—made my stomach twist so hard I thought I was going to be sick. After talking to Genesis, I’d decided to ignore Billie’s text and come over anyway. I hadn’t expected to find a fucking crime scene.
Without giving it a second thought, abandoned my car in the loading zone and barreled into the lobby. Two cops and a thick-necked, red-jacketed security guard were blocking off the elevator vestibule, their arms crossed, radios squawking. A couple of neighbors hung near the mailboxes, whispering with the drama of it all, but I only saw them in my periphery. I tried to get through and got an arm across my chest for my trouble.
“Resident?” one of the officers said, voice as dry as toast.
“I’m here to see Billie Bliss,” I blurted. “She lives in fourteen ten.”
He stepped into my space, looked me up and down. “Are you family?”
I could see, over his shoulder, this trail of bright orange evidence tape and an open elevator cab. “I’m her husband.”
That got a sidelong look from the other cop. “Yourwifehasn’t advised that she is married. We need to keep the floor clear. If you’ll just wait here?—”
“No.” The word came out like it’d been punched from my sternum. “I’m her husband. I need to see her.”
He squared off, the classic I-can-wait-you-out cop posture. “Sir, I can’t let you in until I check with the officers upstairs. Why don’t you just?—”
“Is she hurt?” I asked. “I need to know if she’s okay.”
The officer turned to speak to the offers, ignoring me completely. In my mind I was shouldering past him, sprinting up the stairs, busting through the door. In reality, I was pacing as I pulled out my phone and called Billie because I knew getting arrested wouldn’t help the situation. Billie’s phone went straight to voicemail. I tried Bailey, it rang six times and went to voicemail. Birdie’s went straight to voicemail.
“Shit.” No one was answering their phones.
A blue-haired woman—Mrs. Finch, I would guess from Billie’s stories—appeared next to me, holding a glass of wine. “Husband, huh? I don’t remember being informed about Miss Bliss getting hitched or getting a wedding invite.”
Since I could see the cops were not taking me serious and Mrs. Finch knew every inch of the building, I figured I would try my luck with her. “Iamher husband, I swear.”
“Well now, I’ve known Miss Billie Bliss for a while, and as far as I know, that woman is allergic to marriage and children.”
“I swear, Iamlegally married to Billie.” I wished I had my marriage certificate or that I’d taken a picture.
Picture. I had the wedding video. I pulled it up. “Look.”
I showed her the video Marianne shot of our courthouse wedding. She remained skeptical until it got to the vows and the kiss, then she was sold.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, you liked it so much you put a ring on it, and she actually let you. Alright, Mr. Bliss, come with me.”
She headed down a hallway and then another, leading me to a service elevator. My mind and heart were both racing a mile a minute as I tried all three sister’s phones again. Unfortunately, I got the same result.
