Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(84)

As she raised her weapon, she realized she knew precisely what to do.

Like taking a picture.

Point. Aim.

Shoot.

The bullet flew.

And she prayed. And hoped. And wished.

Charlie crumpled over, grabbing his belly where she’d hit him.

Seconds later, the ambulance screeched to a stop, the medics poured out, and she was on the way to the hospital with her love losing his hold on life.


Now

He’d died in the emergency room twenty minutes later. Annalise had shot him in the stomach, the bullet nicking an artery and tearing through his intestines, the doctors had said. No time to question Charlie Stravinsky—no chance for a deathbed confession, but one was hardly needed.

His confession had been made when he’d arrived at Michael’s building, ready to kill.

John had already put most of the pieces together that morning with the federal agent, and he needed to talk to Annalise to learn what had gone down in the parking garage. She could barely speak, though. Her hands were still shaking, and all she’d managed to say were the barest of details. There would be time enough for that later. After she’d been checked over and cleaned up, he walked her to the ER waiting room where he was rushed by family members—Colin and Elle first.

“What’s going on?” Colin asked, grabbing his arm.

“He’s in surgery. That’s all I know,” John said, wishing he had more news. The doctors didn’t know. The nurses hadn’t supplied any more details. That was standard practice for this kind of trauma. Get the patient in the OR and try to save a life if they could.

Colin’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “Okay. But how does it look? Can’t we get any more information?” Colin implored, his eyes wide with the plea.

John shook his head. “They don’t have any other details to give. As soon as he arrived, he was rushed to the OR. They’re probably trying to figure out the extent of the damage. If—”

“If they can save him?” Colin cut in.

John nodded. “Yes. That’s what they’re trying to do.”

Then an animalistic cry ripped from the throat of the woman next to him, and Annalise slipped from his arms, crumbling to the floor. In an instant, Elle gripped her, wrapped her arms around her, and ushered her away.


Eighteen years ago

He lay on the driveway, his eyes fluttering closed, and Thomas knew this was the end. He could no longer move his lips to utter the word help. The night seemed to wink on and off, the stars in the sky coming in and out of focus and then fading. His body felt light, as if it were floating away from him.

The agonizing pain had ebbed, and as he lay on the asphalt by his home, his last thoughts were of his children. How much he loved them. How much he could continue to love them for the rest of time…here in this world, or in the next one.

And as the earth turned dark, he hoped he wouldn’t see them again for a long, long time…





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


Her head was in her hands.

“I killed a man,” she whispered barrenly. “And the man I love is dying.”

Doubled over in shock and consumed with the sharp, cold sensation of impending grief, Annalise sat on the hard wooden bench in the hospital’s chapel.

Elle, who she’d just met today, stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. Annalise thought she must be the one who’d brought her here from the emergency room an hour ago. Or was it minutes ago? She hardly knew anything anymore, except that all her fears were on the cusp of turning true. The prospect of Michael dying hurt so much—an ache in her bones that would never depart.

“You did what you had to do,” Elle said, her voice strong as she ran her fingers through Annalise’s hair.

“I did,” she choked out, needing the reassurance. She had no regrets over picking up the gun and firing. She only hoped it had been enough to save Michael. But he’d been barely hanging on during the ride to the hospital. She’d hardy even been able to hear the words the paramedics barked when they gave him an IV and fought to keep him alive as he bled, and bled, and bled. The ambulance had seemed to fly at the speed of light, confirmation of how tenuous his hold on life was.

Oh God.

She couldn’t imagine losing him. Couldn’t conceive of burying him. Her chest heaved, and she coughed, choking on the pain.

Now, he was in the operating room and no one knew if the doctors could even save him. There was a bullet in his body. Near his heart.

The door creaked, and Annalise lifted her gaze as a platinum blonde rushed toward them—Sophie, the one who’d arranged for her to come to Vegas for a photo shoot.

“Hi. I’ll be ready for your shoot tomorrow,” Annalise said, her voice flat. She wasn’t sure why she’d said that. Maybe because anything else would hollow her out.

Sophie gave her a look like she was crazy as she kneeled by her side and placed a hand on her thigh. “I’m not here to ask about work. Are you okay, sweetie?”

Annalise shook her head. “No. I don’t know. I killed a man and Michael is dying,” she repeated, because those twin moments of her life felt like everything. Her before, her after, her now.

“You saved a life,” Sophie said, reaching for her hand. “Come on, now. You need to be strong for Michael. You need to be as strong as you can be.”