Page 135 of The Lie Maker

“Lana!”

Before she came into my arms I could see the tears and the blood, and my joy was immediately tempered by concern.

“Not my blood,” she said before I could even ask. She hugged me so tightly I thought she might snap my spine. Her body was starting to heave with silent sobs. She was panting frantically, as if the air had suddenly been displaced.

I put some space between us and tried to get her attention.

“Lana, Lana, what’s happened?”

“I tried... he wouldn’t come... told me to go to the car.” Several deep breaths. “You’re not in the trunk.”

“I got out. Whose blood is this? Dad’s? Has Dad been hurt?”

She shook her head wildly. “The other one. I stabbed him, Jack. In the neck.” Her eyes widened and she almost looked as though she might start laughing. She touched her own throat. “Right here. I got him here.”

“Christ,” I said. “What about Gwen?”

Several more deep breaths. “Pepper-sprayed her.”

“What?” My face broke into a huge smile. “No shit? They’re both down?”

She managed a nod.

I brought her briefly into my arms again. “Man, you are something else,” I said, squeezing her. “What the hell’s Dad doing then? Why didn’t he come back with you?”

“I don’t... I don’t know.”

I took her by the shoulders. “Go to the car. I’ll be there in a minute. We found the actor.”

She blinked. “Actor?”

“Just go to the car.”

For the first time, I heard sirens. That lady in the farmhouse had done the right thing.

“The police are coming,” I said. “Stay with Garth. He’s a good guy.”

Lana sniffed and said, “Hurry back.”

As she headed up to the road, I started running for the cabin. I rounded a corner and there it sat in the clearing, the lights all on inside, the front door wide open.

I called out, “Dad! Dad!”

And then I heard the shot.

I poured on the speed, bounded onto the porch in one step, and came to an abrupt halt when I hit the doorway.

Took in the scene. Bedlam.

Dad lay on his side, clutching his stomach, eyes shut, his white shirt now mostly crimson. A low moan escaped his lips.

Gwen sat in the middle of the floor, legs outstretched, eyes bloodshot, her clothes and hair sopping wet, a gun in her hand. And there, to the left of her, was Cayden, facedown in a pond of blood, his arm outstretched, hand wrapped around another gun, pointed in the direction of my father.

Gwen had a bewildered expression on her face as she looked at me.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” she said. “He begged me, but I couldn’t. But then Cayden... Cayden did it.”

Even though Cayden appeared to have given up his last breath, I went over and pried the gun from his fingers. Then I stood over Gwen and extended my hand, inviting her to pass me the gun—I figured it was the one Dad had brought—and she did.

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