My mouth is dry, but I force my voice steady. “You broke into my house.” The words taste bitter, my tongue thick with adrenaline.
He shrugs, a small, chilling smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You invited me. Publicly.”
A movement behind him—a whisper of fabric, the faintest click of metal. Delia emerges, her silhouette framed in the doorway, both hands wrapped around a revolver. The gun gleams under the kitchen light, and the sight of it sends a cold shiver down my spine. Her posture is eerily calm, her eyes flat and unreadable.
Luke’s stance shifts, protective and deliberate. “Leave,” he says, his voice low, vibrating with restrained fury. “While you still have the ability to eat without a straw.”
Jackson ignores him, taking a slow, measured step toward me. The floor creaks beneath his shoes. “I tried discretion,” he says. “You chose spectacle.”
“You chose children,” I snap back, my voice trembling with anger and fear.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous passing over his face.
Suddenly, Luke lunges. The movement is so fast it startles me—the scrape of his shoes, the sharp intake of breath. Jackson reacts, quicker than I expect, and the sound of his fist connecting with Luke’s cheek is a dull, sickening thud. Luke counters, driving a right hook into Jackson’s jaw. They crash into the kitchen island, chairs skidding and clattering across the tile.
Delia raises the gun, her voice cold and steady. “Stop.”
Luke doesn’t stop. Jackson grabs for leverage, shoving Luke backward. The refrigerator rattles as Luke slams him against it, landing two rapid body shots. The gun’s hammer clicks—a metallic snap that cuts through the chaos, freezing everyone in place.
Luke’s hands rise, just enough to show he’s not giving up. Delia’s aim is unwavering, the barrel pointed at his chest.
“Step away,” she says, her voice eerily calm.
Luke backs up, his breath ragged, sweat beading at his temple.
Jackson straightens, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his breathing harsh. He turns to me, his voice low and venomous. “You think this ends with applause? You think federal paperwork protects you?”
I take a step back, my pulse roaring in my ears. Luke shifts, instinctively putting himself between me and the threat. The gun tracks him, the muzzle never wavering.
Then, a gunshot explodes through the kitchen, deafening in the confined space. The acrid scent of gunpowder fills the air. Luke stumbles and drops to his knees. I’m at his side before I can think, my hands searching frantically for blood, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
“It’s not mine,” he gasps, gripping my wrists. “Look.”
Jackson is clutching his upper arm, blood pouring between his fingers, staining his sleeve crimson. Delia’s eyes widen, shock breaking through her mask. The shot didn’t come from her gun.
Luke’s gaze lifts past me, his voice suddenly gentle. “You’re safe. You can put it down.”
I snap my head in the direction Luke’s looking and see a young teen girl standing in the doorway. She's still holding the gun, and her finger is still on the trigger. Her eyes are wide, her skin is ashen, and she’s shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline dump she just experienced is taking a toll on her body. The fact that she just shot someone weighs heavily upon her mind.
Wait a second.
“Kelly?” I say as I rise from the floor–-very, very slowly. "Kelly, sweetheart, is that you?"
She finally moves her eyes and looks at me. At first, it’s as if she’s looking through me. I’m not sure she’s really here with us until her eyes start to focus again.
“Kelly?”
She chokes out one word before sobbing, and her knees fold under her. “Andi.”
I rush to her side and catch her in my arms as we both crumble to the floor. She drops the gun beside us, buriesher face in my chest, and clings to me as tightly as she can. I lightly stroke her hair and give her calm, soothing words.
“You know her?” Luke asks.
I nod. “This is Kelly. She was my little sister when I was in that house. She was only four or five when they sent me off.” I’m still holding her, much like I used to when she was younger, and gently rocking her back and forth.
“I heard them,” she cries. “He said he was going to hurt you.”
Luke doesn’t chase after the Rhoades as they retreat through the back door. He moves quickly, securing the weapon, then calls the police, his voice steady but urgent. “No sirens. Minor involved. Shots fired.”
