"I've got a twenty-two long pointed at you," Chet told the man. "Put down your gun and kick it over here."
The man chuckled. "I cannot see you. So how do I know you are speaking the truth?"
"You don't."
"Do you know how to use that rifle, boy?"
An ear-splitting blast erupted, followed by a casing clinking on the floor. "Looks like I know how to use it," Chet said. "Gun on the floor, kick it over here, nice and easy."
"Okay, okay," the man said. "I am putting it down." There was a skidding noise as the gun slid across the floor.
"Got a phone?" Chet asked him.
"In my motel room, yes."
"Then that's where we're going. You're going to call the people you work for. Tell them you killed Stella, job's over. If you want to walk out of here alive, make your story convincing."
The man laughed smoothly. "And then what? You kill me? My employer will know if I do not return to Philadelphia. He will send more men. He will not stop until he finds her. Now or later, it makes no difference, she will die. She is--how do you say it?--a ticking clock. You are putting your life in danger unnecessarily. Forget the girl and save yourself." He made a casual grunt. "What I do with her is not your concern."
"That's where you're wrong. Step over to the wall."
The man exhaled a troubled sigh, as though telling Chet he was making a big mistake.
"The wall," Chet ordered.
"Yes, yes, I am going."
"Stella?" Chet said. "You okay?"
"Yes," I croaked.
"The Scout's in the drive. Key's in the ignition. Drive to the police station. Don't leave until Carmina comes for you. Stay there and don't come out for anybody else."
Pushing to my feet, I felt my way across the room. A fresh wave of tears tumbled down my cheeks, but these were tears of relief. Chet had found me. I was going to live. I was going to see him and Carmina again.
With one hand on the wall, I moved through the darkness. Just a few more steps to the door--
I heard a scuffle of feet and felt fumbling hands. Before I could move away, he grabbed my arm, yanking hard. I whirled, stopping with my back to his chest. His breath panted against my cheek. Something cold and sharp dug into my throat. I gasped as the pain cut deeper.
"I have a knife to her throat," the man snarled. "Lower your gun. Put it and the one you took from me on the floor. Slide them over."
"Stella?" Chet called out.
"Three seconds before I cut her throat," the man growled.
I heard Chet set his rifle on the floor. The smaller gun followed. They scraped over the cement as he kicked them toward us.
The man barked, "In the corner. On your knees. Head down. Speak to me as you do these things. I hear your voice and know where you are."
"I'm moving," Chet said. "I'm on my knees. Head down." The sound of his voice confirmed his location.
"You next," the man ordered me, shoving me in Chet's direction. I scrambled to him, pressing close. I grappled for his hand, locking mine around his. He felt warm and solid, and while he wasn't shaking, I knew he had to be afraid.
I heard the man feeling the ground for the guns.
Chet pulled me into his arms. We were on our knees, holding each other tightly.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I sobbed quietly.
He kissed my forehead and nudged my damp hair off my face. I shut my eyes and imagined I could see him. Dark curly hair, sizzling blue eyes. A chiseled, handsome face. One I associated with strength, intelligence, and tenderness. "Shh, don't say that," he murmured. "No matter what happens now, we think about each other. We remember the good. Until this is over, we cling to that. No regrets."
The man picked up the rifle. I gripped Chet tighter.
"Estella first," the man ordered. "Stand up."
Before I could even process his request--or realize this was it, we were out of time, he was going to shoot us, one and then the other--Chet shoved to his feet. "I'm going first."
"No!" I cried, scrabbling to get up and stop him. I couldn't find him. It was too dark. "Chet, no!"
I heard the man push Chet toward the stairs. Next thing, I felt a strike to my chest, sending me sprawling backward on the hard concrete. All breath left me in a whoosh. It took several moments for air to burn down my throat again.
I listened, dazed and horrified, as the metal doors above shut and locked between Chet and me.
"Chet!" I screamed.
"Remember what I said," he yelled through the doors.
I dragged myself after him and pounded on the metal doors. It was no use. The bolt was secure. I couldn't get to Chet. I couldn't stop this from happening. I drew up a mental image of him and played it in my head, over and over.
Folding my hands over my ears, I wept. I didn't want to hear the shot. I didn't want to know when he was dead. Stumbling downstairs, I put distance between me and that horrible sound I knew would come.
I still had things I wanted to tell Chet. There were things--important things, life-changing things--we'd never done together. I'd been wrong about tonight. I was haunted by regret. This was not how our story ended.
The sound of the gunshot ripped me open.
And I knew.
36
IN THAT INSTANT, I KNEW CHET WAS GONE. I FELT numb and groggy. The next thing I knew, I'd emptied my stomach.
My extremities shook uncontrollably. Even my lips felt like they were vibrating. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't see. It was so black. So cold. The air was stale and muggy, but I was cold. Bone cold.
I should have wept. I wanted to. But there was nothing inside me. Dry and hollow, I sat with my back braced against the wall, smelling vomit.
He was gone. Never coming back. I'd killed him. It wasn't an exaggeration or dramatics. He was dead because of me. Because he fell in love with me. Because he did the honorable thing and tried to save my life.
I rewound time in my head, going back to the beginning. If I hadn't gone to the library that night to e-mail Reed. If the Mustang hadn't stalled. If I hadn't agreed to let Chet help me.
I wouldn't have known him, or spent the best three months of my life with him. But he would still be alive.
I was so deep in my grief, I almost didn't hear the sound of feet thundering down the stairs. Beams of light darted erratically around the room. In quick succession, they all came to shine on me.
"Stella!"
Carmina's voice caused my chin to jerk upward. "Carmina?"
She rushed forward, yanking me to my feet and pinning me in a tight embrace. The force of her hug squeezed the breath out of me. "You're okay. You're okay," she murmured, her voice shaking with relief.
I sank into her, my knees dissolving.
"Everyone, stand back. Give her some room." Her hand touched my forehead. "She's cold. Eyes are unfocused. Someone give me a water bottle!"
Water trickled past my lips. As soon as I realized it was real, I drank greedily. The tears started flowing then. I wept freely. "Chet. He--he--"
"Oh, Stella. No. He's alive. He's right outside. Being questioned by local PD."
"I--What?" I stared at her blankly. "I heard the shot."
Her voice turned solemn. "I shot the man who tried to kill you and Chet. Chet called me a few minutes ago saying he thought he heard gunfire here at the house. I told him to stay put, but he came for you. Right away I called local PD and headed home."
"Deceased's name is Yevgeniy Polishchuk," one of the uniformed officers said, stepping forward to address Carmina. "We're running him through the system now. Driver's license gives an address in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."
"I have to see Chet," I said. Everything else could wait.
At that moment, he pushed his way inside the storm shelter. His searching eyes zeroed in on me, and they were stripped raw. The next thing I knew, he was tugging me against him. He guided my head to his chest, where I felt every ragged breath. I clutched fistfuls of his shirt, unwilling to lose him again.
/> "You've alive," I said. "It's really you."
"I heard the shot and thought I was gone," he said roughly in my ear. "Couldn't figure out why I didn't feel pain. And then I saw the blood. He was on the ground, covered in it. Carmina's a hell of a shot."
"You went first," I said. "You tried to buy me time, hoping she would make it here."
"Doesn't matter. Didn't need the extra time."
"It matters to me."
He kissed me once, twice. Burying his face in my hair, he held me closer than before. "It was never a question. Of course I was going first. Let's get out of here. You need a place to sit and let it all go."
"First I have to tell Carmina what I told you earlier tonight. I should have told her ages ago. If I had, none of this would have happened."
"Tell me what?" Carmina said, turning away from the officer speaking to her.
The scattered light from the flashlights illuminated her strong, unflinching features. As I met her eyes, I felt no fear. If anything, I wanted to be like her. Courageous. I wanted to do the right thing, even though it was also the most difficult.
I glanced once at Chet, who gave an encouraging nod. He believed in me, and I clung to that.
"Let's go up to the house," I told her.
37
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, CARMINA AND I WERE swaying idly on the porch swing when Chet strolled up the drive, blooms of long-stemmed sunflowers in his hands. His button-down shirt was rolled to the elbows and open at the collar. The summer sun had bronzed his skin as it had mine. His hair was dark and unruly, his eyes midnight blue.
He tipped his hat when he saw us watching him, then leaped up the steps gracefully.
"One for the lady who saved my life," he said, delivering a bouquet to Carmina's hesitant hands, "and one for my girl."
"Did you hear Carmina was on the news this morning?" I asked him, inhaling the yellow blossoms' nutty fragrance.
"In fact, I did," he said, stretching those long legs as he sat on the top step. "What I want to know, Carmina, is, when you aimed your weapon at that man, did it ever cross your mind you might hit me instead? It was awfully dark. What if I'd moved at the last second? What if he'd moved? What if you'd flinched and lost your aim?"
"Lost my aim, my foot," she scoffed.
He laid his cowboy hat solemnly over his heart. "Not that it's happened to me. But I'm younger." He grinned. "Better eyesight."
"Maybe I ought to have put a hole in you," she remarked. "Deflate some of that pride keeping your head afloat." Her tone grew serious. "We can joke all we want, but I'm glad you're both here, both okay. I'm just--glad we're together. Don't know about the two of you, but I didn't sleep last night. Can't imagine what Trigger's family must be going through. Say what you want about him, but no parent deserves to bury their child." Her eyes misted and she blinked them dry. "I think it's going to take a long while for his parents to accept what he did and how that poor, foolish boy's life ended. It'll probably take me a similar length of time to move on. No use in thinking what might have been--how last night could've ended--but if I'm not careful, my mind strays there just the same."
Yes, it does, I thought. Like Carmina, I hadn't slept last night. I'd replayed those final minutes before she shot Danny Balando's hit man over and over. The terror, the fear--both were still so fresh. When I hadn't been imagining how those minutes might have ended differently, I'd thought about my mom. Was she safe? Would I see her again? I'd also thought about Reed. Looking back, I think I'd always known that when we went into WITSEC, that was the end. We would never see each other again. Out of self-preservation I'd let myself believe otherwise. I'd desperately needed to cling to any hope that my old life--and those who'd mattered most--weren't gone forever. Even if Danny's men hadn't caught up to Reed, he wasn't looking for me. He'd moved on.
And so had I.
"I'll pour you a glass of basil lemonade, Chet," I said, rising from my perch.
"Don't you two have anything better to do than hang around with an old woman?" Carmina fussed, shooing us with her hands. "Take a walk. It's too pretty a day to lounge around here. No, Stella, I don't want to hear a word. I've got the paper's crossword puzzle to keep me busy. Go on, now."
I bit my lip to hold in a smile. It seemed she'd finally warmed to the idea of me and Chet. Took her long enough. "All right. But only if you promise to put my flowers in a vase."
"As if I'd let Hannah Falconer's sunflowers go to waste," she said exasperatedly, snatching my bouquet, then using it to slap me on the bum. "Take a walk and work up your appetites. I'll have lunch fixed by the time you get back."
I grabbed my cowgirl hat off the milking stool Carmina used as a doorstop and dropped it on my head. Then I let Chet take my hand and escort me down the drive.
I swung our joined arms lazily and said, "Carmina and I had a long talk last night. We stayed up most of the night. I told her everything. The detectives working the case are flying out. I'll have to give them my corrected statement. My lies will come out, but I'm not afraid. I'd rather deal with the consequences than keep living that horrible lie. Carmina said prosecutions for perjury are incredibly rare, and while I'll most likely be off the hook in that regard, I've punished myself with enough guilt to last a lifetime. I could have avoided everything if I'd told the truth from the beginning."
"You were scared. You were protecting your mom."
"I justified my actions. I told myself it was okay to lie, because Danny Balando was an evil man who belonged behind bars. Maybe he does. But not for this crime."
"Have they released him?"
"They're holding him on conspiracy charges. After they got a warrant from the original arrest, they found evidence linking him to the cartel. He's not getting out any time soon."
"Are they worried he'll send someone else to hurt you?"
"I'm a discredited witness. The prosecution can't use me in court. Nothing I say will hold up because I lied before. Anyway, he's no longer being charged with murder. I'm not a threat to him anymore."
"And your mom?"
"The marshals are looking for her. Sooner or later, they'll find her. Until then, I think she'll go back to stealing and using," I said, my tone turning melancholy. As much as I didn't want to care about her, I did. I wanted her to get better. Maybe she someday would. But it would be a long, hard road back. "It's what she knows."
"What about you?" Chet said, stopping us under the shade of an expansive cottonwood. He leaned his forearms casually on the split-rail fence, but a closer look revealed his hands were clamped tightly. He worked them opened and closed, those strong, sure fingers tense. "Will you go back? To your old life?" He seemed to hold his breath while his eyes studied mine closely.
I considered his question carefully. So many things had changed this summer. I had changed. I could never go back to the person I once was. I was not Estella Goodwinn anymore. "I don't have happy memories there. That scared, desperate, hurting girl in Philadelphia? She's not me. Not anymore. This is my home now. This feels right."
Slowly, his eyes cleared. They lit with a spark of hope. "You'll stay?"
I eased my elbows back against the fence beside him, smiling. "See, there's this guy here, a really sweet, sensitive, sexy guy, and I'm not ready to let go of him just yet."
Chet moved in front of me, positioning his legs around mine. He braced his hands on the fence, trapping me between him and it. Lowering his head, he spoke with his mouth inches from mine. "You're going to have to tell this guy you're taken. Because I don't share."
"Should I let him down easy?" I murmured, leaning in close to play this game. When my mouth skimmed his jaw, I heard his breath hiss, low and hot.
"Doesn't matter. When I finish with you, you aren't going to remember his name."
"Mmm, is that a promise?"
He slipped my denim jacket off my shoulders. It landed in the dandelions with a whisper of fabric. His long-lashed eyes gave me an unhurried once-over. I felt their trailing heat like a physical cares
s, and warmed with anticipation.
Chet was nothing, I'd learned, if not a man of his word.
The door chimed and my fake boyfriend strolled inside. He was even better-looking up close. And his eyes were most definitely brown--a weathered brown that reminded me of driftwood. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and I grabbed Calvin's arm and hauled him behind a shelf stacked with Fig Newtons and Oreos.
"What are we doing?" Calvin asked, staring at me like I'd sprouted two heads.
"I don't want him to see me," I whispered.
"Because he's not really your boyfriend, right?"
"That's not it. It's--"
Where was a third lie when I needed it?
Cal smiled devilishly, and the next thing I knew, he had shaken off my hand and was ambling toward the front counter. I trapped a groan between my teeth and watched, peering between the two top shelves.
"Hey," Calvin said affably to the guy, who wore a buffalo-check flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots.
With barely a glance up, the guy tipped his head in acknowledgment.
"I hear you're dating my ex," Calvin said, and there was something undeniably smug in his tone. He was giving me a taste of my own medicine, and he knew it.
Calvin's remark drew the full attention of the guy. He studied Calvin curiously, and I felt my cheeks grow even hotter.
"You know, your girlfriend," Calvin prodded. "Hiding behind the cookies over there."
He was pointing at me.
I straightened, my head surfacing above the top shelf. I smoothed my shirt and opened my mouth, but there were no words. No words at all.
The guy looked beyond Calvin to me. Our gazes locked briefly, and I mouthed a humiliated I can explain . . . But I couldn't.
Then something unexpected happened. The guy looked squarely at Calvin, and said in an easy, unruffled voice, "Yeah. My girlfriend. Britt."
I flinched. He knew my name?
Calvin appeared similarly startled. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, man. I thought--" He stuck out his hand. "I'm Calvin Versteeg," he stammered awkwardly. "Britt's . . . ex."
"Mason." Mason eyed Calvin's outstretched hand but didn't take it. Then he crossed to me and kissed my cheek. It was a no-frills kiss, but my pulse thrummed just the same. He smiled, and it was a warm, sexy smile. "I see you haven't gotten over your Slurpee addiction, Britt."