The guys put on a show to impress their boss.

“Oh, yeah. I’m really shaking now,” Stick said.

“Yeah. Me too,” Skuzzaroni replied, knocking his knees together in fun.

I rolled my eyes at their behavior. I could swear I’d seen the episode before, while watching cop shows with Brad.

Then there was movement, a streak of color from the kitchen archway over to Frank. A slender arm wrapped Frank’s neck. A gun prodded his temple. He froze, gasping. Candice’s face appeared over the stubby man’s shoulder. Stick and Skuzzboy floundered for their weapons.

“Put the guns on the floor.” Candice gave the orders like a pro.

Stick and Skuzz hesitated, then set their weapons down.

“Hey, now, sweetheart. Let’s work this out.” Frank put in his plea.

“I’m done working with you, Frank. I told you if you tried to hurt my girl, it was all over.” She nodded at Joel and Gerard. “Help me out.”

Joel and Gerard stood, the weapons from the floor now in their hands. Joel kept his trained on Stick and Skuzz. Gerard swung his around to face Candice. She kept the gun tight to Frank’s skull.

“Put it down, Candice. Nobody has to get hurt,” Gerard said.

“I can’t let him go again. I’m sorry, Gerard. I know you worked hard to track all the connections and players. I should have just handed you the black box. It could have put Frank away for the rest of his life. But I couldn’t take the chance he’d get off on some technicality. He killed Beth and he almost killed Tish. If you think he deserves mercy, you’re wrong.”

“Put the gun down.” The voice came from the archway.

It was Brad. With all the commotion, none of us had heard him arrive. He held a pistol in front of him, aimed at Candice.

“Are you two nuts?” I asked. “Frank’s the criminal here, not Candice.”

“Stay out of it, cuz,” Gerard said. “There’s not a whole lot of difference between these two. Justice will be served when they’re both behind bars.”

Could Gerard be right? I slumped over to the couch and sat next to Samantha. I wanted Candice to be the friend she’d always been. I didn’t want her to have some secret life, where she framed drug lords and killed dealers. She was Candice. The Tea Lady. The woman who’d dreamed of being like a grandmother to me.

“Backup’s on the way,” Brad was saying. “You two did a pretty lame job hiding your vehicle. Anyone could see it through the trees. And a five-year-old could spot your elephant tracks.”

“You must be Brad,” Candice said over her shoulder in her spider-versus-the-fly voice.

“Put the weapon down.” Brad filled the archway with his imposing form.

Without a trace of fear toward the gun trained on her back, Candice ground the muzzle of her weapon into Majestic’s temple.

“Ahhh!” Majestic squirmed under the pressure.

Candice threw a glance over her shoulder. “Well, Brad. You don’t seem to respect the fact that I’m in charge here.”

“I respect the law”—Brad’s gun held steady—“which you don’t seem to mind breaking.”

His remark earned a smile from Candice. I held a moment of hope that the situation would be resolved.

“I’m telling you right now, Brad,” she said. “You don’t deserve Tish. You’re just like the rest of them. No respect for women. You’ll try to break her down and crush her spirit.”

Brad shook his head. “You’re wrong. I love Tish. And I love her spirit best of all. She’ll be safe with me.” He sent a split-second glance in my direction.

I pressed my lips between my teeth, overcome by his declaration.

Candice egged him on. “You’re a man. You can’t help but stomp all over us. It’s in your blood. Now back away from the door. Frank and I were just leaving.”

Brad stayed rooted to the floor.

“Back off or I’ll kill him.” She jammed the barrel against Frank’s head.

Frank gave a yell. “Do what she says. She’s a killer.”

Brad stepped from the doorway, gun still pointed at Candice.

“Move it, Frank,” Candice said. The two stumbled backward toward the kitchen archway. Candice stopped at the doorway with her hostage. Only Frank was visible from my place on the sofa.

Candice’s voice drifted to me. “Tish, always remember I love you.”

Then in a blink, the pistol left Frank’s head and pointed in Brad’s direction.

My ears exploded as she pulled the trigger.

43

When the echo cleared, the whoosh of blood in my head dampened the shrill screams coming from the vicinity of the sofa. In front of me, Joel finally reacted, jerking his gun toward the doorway, but Candice and her hostage were gone.

The next few minutes were a blur.

Across the room, Brad seemed to fall almost gracefully to the ground. One hand rested over his chest like he’d been shot. Gerard reached him first, bending to look. An oath, then he was gone, bursting through the door. I jumped as more shots rang, this time from outside.

“Joel!” Sam screamed too late as Stick and Skuzz jumped him from behind. Skuzz wrestled the gun away and cracked it across Joel’s skull. My cousin collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

“Keep an eye on these guys. I’m going after Frank,” Skuzz yelled and raced toward the kitchen.

Stick scooped up Brad’s gun and waved Sam back to the sofa.

The rev of an engine. The spin of tires on gravel as a vehicle raced away.

Around me, screams. Shouts. A child’s cry. I walked in a state of stupor through the noise until I stood over Brad. Blood rose between the fingers that gripped his chest. A sucking sound came from the wound. I hunched at his side, leaning close, feeling nothing, as if I’d been put under a trance and watched my own body move around the room.

“Tish.” He said my name.

The spell was broken. My lower lip trembled. “Brad.”

I rocked back and forth next to him, squeezing his hand. Breath rasped out of me, along with moans. My fingers reached toward the wound, then pulled back, helpless. The salty smell of his blood filled the air.

A scream gurgled up in my throat like vomit. “Somebody help! Somebody help him!” My lungs ached from the force of my cry. I looked around but saw nothing but the blurry wash of tears.

From behind me came Stick’s threatening voice. “Back on the couch, Russo. Now.”

I ignored the command.

“Do you want me to kill you?” Stick sounded dead serious.

I bent my forehead against Brad’s shoulder. My answer depended on whether Brad lived or died.

“Leave her alone!” Sam yelled from the couch. “Let us get help, please.”

“Stow it, bimbo.”

Samantha made the growl of a mother tiger. From the corner of my eye, I saw her launch herself toward Stick. I jerked upright to see her black hair billowing behind like a witch’s cape. With an oath of surprise, Stick threw his arms out. Sam landed, and the two of them plowed against the hearth. Stick’s hand angled out and hit the rocks. His weapon wrenched the air with its thundering discharge.

The same moment, something hit my arm, nearly spinning me around with the force. A jolt of lightning seemed to flash through my mind as every pain receptor turned on simultaneously. I grabbed my arm. Wet heat. I held out my fingers and looked at them in horror. Sticky, hot blood. I looked at my shirt. The sleeve had a hole in it. The ragged rim seeped red. Oh, Lord. I’d been shot.

Over by the fireplace, Stick snarled and threw Samantha off of him. He jumped to his feet and hulked over her, pointing the gun at her chest.

She seethed up at him.

In the distance came the blare of sirens—Brad’s backup. Help was on the way.

Stick looked at his captives as if weighing his options. Then he bolted out the deck door and ran toward the lake.

I turned to Brad, leaning over him, ignoring my own pain. My blood mingled with his like oozing lava. “Hang on. Help is coming.”

His eyes were closed. His chest was still. “Brad? Oh, God, please! Brad? Hang on. Hang on.”

Arms pulled me away. I reached toward him. “Brad! Brad!” My voice was hoarse, nothing more than a rattle in my throat.

Sam crouched next to me, one hand holding me back, the other sliding out of her cardigan. She wrapped my wound with the thin cotton, tying the sleeves in a tight binding around my upper arm. Then we clung to each other with grips of desperation, rocking, crying, as police entered the room, weapons sweeping from side to side.

“All clear,” a trooper said into his radio. “We’ve got a man down. Gunshot wound to the chest. Where’s the ambulance? Let’s get some help in here.” The trooper bent near Joel. “A second victim appears to be unconscious. Pulse is strong.”

A moment later, the first response team rushed in and crowded around Brad.

“We’ve got another one down in here. Where’s our backup?” the female rescue worker spoke into her radio.

The radio crackled a reply.

Behind us on the sofa, Missy described the ordeal to an officer, her words murky in the background of my own sobs. The trooper escorted her and the children through the arch, their forms a blur.

A woman’s voice broke through the haze. “Not sure I have a pulse.”

A man’s bulky build obstructed my view as he barked orders. The woman raced out.

Sounds of a zipper. The whoosh of air. Then the tech’s shoulders moved up and down as he started CPR.

“One, two, three . . . ,” he counted under his breath.

The other EMT returned, a red case in her hand.

A zip. The tear of fabric. A ripping sound.

Then a feminine voice as emotionless as a computer. “Attach electrodes.”