Behind Every Lie(87)

My eyes met Liam’s.

I could shoot him, I realized.

I could shoot him and everybody would think it was self-defense. Even Andrew would say so. I’d failed last time. The night my mom died. I had the chance to kill him then, and instead I’d run. But I didn’t have to run this time.

Death at my hand was no less than he deserved. I lifted the gun, my finger tightening on the trigger.

Liam’s eyes on mine were hot, tortured windows into the broken person inside. The pain of my rejection had made him unrecognizable to me.

“I love you most,” he whispered.

And in that split second I realized that getting struck by lightning was more than just a close call I was lucky to survive. It had illuminated the me who’d been buried inside all along. And that woman was not a murderer.

My grasp on the trigger loosened, my arm going limp. Andrew swayed forward, his hands trying vainly to pluck the weapon from my grasp. My fingers tangled around the barrel, then released it as he wrenched it away, causing me to spin and fall forward as my knees collapsed.

The crack of the gun firing roared in my ears, a high, hollow ringing. Pain exploded in me. I was submerged in the fire of a kiln, everything raw and red and hot as the bullet ripped through my shoulder. And then I was on the floor inside a mushroom cloud of blood and bone and stringy gray beads of brain matter, the only sound that high-pitched squeal in my ears.

Something thumped next to me, the reverberations in the floor sending more shock waves of pain ricocheting through my body. I turned and saw it was Liam.

Half his face was gone.

I started screaming, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Andrew’s mouth was moving, silent, empty words. The world sharpened around me: a cobweb on the ceiling, the shape of the daffodils in the painting above me, the smudge across Andrew’s glasses, the scrape of the carpet beneath my cheek.

Andrew ripped his shirt off and pressed it to my shoulder, trying to stop the blood. He was crying, his face splattered with splotches of crimson. His mouth flopped open and closed. Somewhere on some superconscious level, I realized I’d never seen Andrew fall apart like this.

My hearing had started returning, the sound of Andrew shouting for Siri to dial 911 just beyond the horrific whine swirling in dizzying, painful circles around my head.

Sirens pierced the air. Uniformed officers burst into the living room. Two paramedics flanked me. A stretcher was rolled out. The shrieking pain was white-hot fire licking at my very core.

“I shot him,” I babbled over and over. “I shot him.”

Andrew looked confused but had no time to argue. The paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher. They were carrying me outside, just about to put me in the ambulance when a cop car screeched to a stop, lights flashing. Detective Jackson slammed the door and sprinted to me, his leather jacket flapping open in the wind.

His face was white as an envelope. He touched a hand to my forehead, almost a caress.

“He tried to kill us,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I know. I believe you.”

Darkness was coming fast. Too fast. And then red. Tendrils of red and black swirling over my vision.

And then nothing.





forty-eight

eva




A SOFT TAP CAME at the hospital door just as Dr. Simm finished examining me.

“Come in,” I called.

Detective Jackson poked his head inside. He smiled, fine lines like little half suns crumpling the corners of his blue eyes. It softened the wolfish blueprint of his face, made him seem younger, less severe. He stepped inside the door.

“All done! You officially have a clean bill of health,” Dr. Simm said. “Maybe just don’t leave home next time there’s a lightning storm.”

I chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay. You know where to come if you need anything.” She turned to go.

“Hey, Dr. Simm?” She turned around. “Thank you.”

She smiled and nodded. Detective Jackson approached my bed as she left. He lifted a bunch of white roses clutched in his hand.

“Hey there, Eva. I brought you flowers.” His Boston accent came out stronger than usual in the word flawers.

“Oh. Wow. That’s really sweet of you. Thanks.”

I propped myself higher on the narrow hospital bed as he set the flowers on the counter and pulled a chair up to sit next to me.

“So.” He looked at my right arm, which was heavily bandaged and resting in a sling. “The doctor said the bullet went through the front of your shoulder?”

“Yes. And out the top.”

“You’re acquiring quite a collection of scars there. You’re lucky the bullet missed any major arteries.”

“At least I remember getting this scar,” I replied.

Jackson threw his head back and laughed. “Well, they do say you never get struck by lightning twice.” He sobered. “So you’re being discharged today?”

“Yep. All official with checkout paperwork and everything.” I plucked at the blanket on my legs. Slanted rays slid through the blinds, heating the material so it was warm beneath my fingers. “Detective, why didn’t you just arrest me after you found my DNA and fingerprints at Mom’s house?”

He leaned back in the hard plastic chair, stretching his feet in front of him.