Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(2)

Shaking himself out of his paralysis, he started forward. Paul saw him. His eyes widened. His head shook, almost imperceptibly, and he mouthed, “Run.”

But Evan couldn’t leave him there. His feet were rooted in place, as if the carpet had turned into ten inches of thick mud. He couldn’t do anything. Paul’s eyes shifted to the coffee table. Evan followed his line of sight to where Paul’s handgun lay next to gun-cleaning supplies set out on a newspaper. Paul’s fingers crawled along the carpet toward the table, but there was no way he’d be able to reach. He tried to roll, but the movement sent blood gushing onto the carpet, and he fell back.

Then a man walked into view and stood over Paul. He had a gun in his hand and wore a suit that didn’t seem to fit him very well. When he lifted the gun, his suit jacket opened, revealing a gold badge clipped to his belt. A cop? He pointed the gun at Paul’s face. The cop wore purple gloves that looked like the ones Evan’s mom used at work. Panic grabbed Evan by the balls as he realized what was going to happen. The man was going to shoot Paul again. And Paul was going to die. Paul’s legs twitched, almost in a running motion. He knew what was coming too, but he was too badly wounded to move anything except his feet.

And what did Evan do?

Fucking stood there, frozen, staring and shaking like a coward.

“What do you want from me?” Paul hissed, his voice weak as a breath.

“I want you to die.” The man pulled the trigger. The gunshot blasted through the room.

Evan jumped. His heart skipped a beat. Panic tightened his lungs until he couldn’t draw a breath. Paul’s legs went still, and Evan knew he was gone.

Dead.

Evan felt the choking gasp tear from his throat, yet he didn’t recognize the guttural animal sound as coming from his own mouth. His gaze was locked on the horror in the den.

Paul lay dead on the carpet, his body an island surrounded by a lake of blood.

Evan inhaled. At the rush of oxygen, his heart stuttered and kicked back into rhythm. He took one step forward, toward Paul, on reflex, before his brain put on the brakes.

But Paul was dead. Shot in the head by the man who now stood over him.

No. Not shot.

Executed.

The man turned, his eyes fixing on Evan, his gaze dumping pure terror into Evan’s bloodstream. It flowed into his veins like ice water. His bowels cramped. Gooseflesh rippled up his arms. He turned toward the back door, but the dead bolt was locked. Afraid of easy breakins, Paul had had the turn lock replaced with a keyed dead bolt when they’d moved in. Where was the key?

He turned and ran the way he’d come. Equal parts anger and terror fueled his steps and scattered his thoughts. Evan tore into the kitchen, his feet sliding on the tiles. He slammed into the sideboard. A stack of dishes slid off and shattered. Framed wedding pictures fell from the wall, the glass breaking as they hit the floor. Evan went down on his ass. His tailbone rang with the impact on the tile, and his legs went numb for a few seconds.

“Where are you?” a voice called.

Scrambling to his feet, Evan ran toward the front door. He had to get out of the house. He was one of the fastest players on his hockey team, both on and off the ice. Once he was out in the open, he could outrun almost anybody.

“You can’t get away.” The voice was in front of him.

While Evan had been picking himself up off the kitchen floor, the killer had circled around through the dining room, beating Evan to the front door.

Evan stopped and tried to be silent. But his knees shook, and his breaths came fast and hard enough to echo in his ears. He fought to slow his breathing. The killer would be able to hear him.

He was going to die. Shot in the head like Paul.

His pulse sprinted in terror.

“You might as well give up now. I’ll make it easy on you and kill you quickly.” He was closer.

Evan backed through the kitchen. A piece of glass crunched under his foot. Sweat poured down his back. He was trapped. He needed the key to the back door.

He’s going to get me.

“Know this: no matter what you do, no matter where you go, I’m going to find you and kill you.” The sentence was delivered with the same cold-blooded calm that had been in the killer’s eyes when he’d shot Paul.

The faint squeak of a floorboard in the hall nearly made Evan’s bladder give way. He concentrated for a second until it passed. Then he stepped over the glass, easing his way back into the corridor that led to the den.

He slipped into the room. Paul’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Tears and snot ran down Evan’s face as he skirted the bloodstained carpet. Standing next to Paul, he searched his pockets. Keys. He pulled them out, wrapping his fingers around them to keep them from jingling.

“Where are you?” the voice called, irritation clipping the words. “You’re just dragging this out.”

Evan eased to the back door. He held Paul’s keys in his palm, his shaking fingers finding the right key. He held the rest of Paul’s keys quiet as he unlocked the dead bolt. The hinges groaned as he began to open the door.

“I’m going to kill you. You can’t get away from me.” The man was in the doorway between the kitchen and rear hall. He raised his gun. “You’re a dead man.”

Evan flung open the door. The gunshot rang out. A lick of hot pain sliced through Evan’s arm. He grabbed his bicep, automatically feeling for the wound. His hand came away wet, but his arm had gone numb. He felt nothing.