Mine to Keep (Mine #2)(80)

“Trace?”

The phone slipped from his fingers.

Trace stared down at his chest. Reese had always been such a damn fine shot.

A good friend? No.

But a good killer.

I love you, Skye.

He just hated that he’d broken his promise to her. He’d said that he would return to her.

She’d asked for only one thing. Come back to me.

It was the one thing he couldn’t give her.

***

Skye raced toward the apartment. Her breath heaved in her lungs even as her heart thundered wildly in her chest. She’d been disconnected. Trace’s call had just ended and no matter how many times she tried, she couldn’t get him back on the line.

“Ma’am, stop!” A uniformed cop appeared in her path. “This is a crime scene, you can’t go in there!”

Police cruisers lined the street. Three ambulances—three—were there. “My fiancé is in that building! I’ve got to find him!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but no one is getting in there now.” His face was grim but sympathetic. “Now just stand back.”

“Injured officer!” Another voice shouted. “Make room!”

Her head snapped to the right. Two EMTs were pushing out a man on a gurney. They wheeled right past her, and she saw Alex’s ashen face.

“Alex!” She rushed toward him.

His hand rose and caught her wrist. “So…sorry…”

An EMT pulled Alex’s hand away.

But she grabbed it right back. “Where’s Trace?”

Alex’s eyes squinted up at her. “Was…watching Reese…caught him t-tailing me…thought Weston had…sent him…”

“Please, where is Trace?”

The uniformed cop wrapped his arms around Skye and pulled her back. The EMTs loaded Alex into the back of the nearest ambulance. The doors slammed shut and the siren screamed on.

“One fatality,” a voice behind her muttered. “But did you see the blood in that place? It looked like something out of a horror movie.”

Skye was glad the cop held her. Without him, she might have hit the ground right then. Her nails dug into his arms, and she turned to gaze up at the young officer. “Was the fatality Trace Weston?”

“I don’t know who died, ma’am,” he whispered back. “I wasn’t cleared to go upstairs. I just know some guy took a detective hostage and started shooting people in the street.” He pointed to the left, and she looked, gasping when she saw the dark pool of what had to be blood under a street lamp.

“They already took one man to the hospital. He had a gunshot wound to the chest.” The cop’s lips thinned. “I can’t say anymore, okay? Go to the hospital. St. Mary’s. Wait there.”

She backed away from him, forcing her legs to move. St. Mary’s. Claire and Drake had been taken to St. Mary’s, too. The EMTS had arrived at her studio. They’d come with police.

The police had wanted to question Skye. They’d wanted her to go down to the station.

She’d just wanted to get away. She’d faked being sick and she’d darted to the bathroom. Then she’d climbed out of the window and grabbed the first taxi that she saw.

Her gaze flew around the scene. Trace’s car was still there. Far too close to the ominous pool of blood. It looked black. In the darkness, the blood looked so black.

She didn’t see Noah. She didn’t see Trace.

“He’s seizing!”

Two more EMTs ran from the apartment. A man was between them on the gurney. His hand fell limply, his fingers lax.

In that instant, everything stopped for Skye as she gazed at that hand.

It was the hand of the man who’d saved her from being raped when she was fifteen. That hand had struck out with vicious accuracy then, beating her attacker again and again.

That was the man who’d saved her from hell. He’d pulled her out of that terrible basement. Carried her. Held her close with that hand.

That was the hand of the man who’d proposed to her. His fingers had trembled when he’d slid the ring onto her finger. Weakness, when Trace was normally so strong.

Trace! They were loading him into the back of an ambulance, and she jumped inside with them.

One of the EMTs glanced up. “Lady, you can’t—”

“I’m his fiancé.” Oh, God, his chest. The blood. “Help him!”

The EMT jerked his head and went back to work. The siren screamed as the vehicle lurched forward.

Skye grabbed for Trace’s hand. She held it like the lifeline that it was. She hadn’t warned him fast enough. Reese had done this. The man they’d trusted.

Her hold tightened on him. “Come back to me,” Skye whispered because she could tell—she could feel—that Trace was slipping away. His face was too still. Too pale. The life and energy—all that was Trace—gone.

“Please,” she whispered while the EMTs hooked him up to machines and poked him with needles. “Don’t leave me, Trace. I don’t want to be without you.” She’d tried that. And she’d felt as if she were only living half a life during those years.

“Come back to me,” Skye said again.

But Trace didn’t answer her, and a cold chill covered her body.