Page 138 of The Last Close Call

But there was no sound, only his monstrous face, and the realization that she’d made a terrible mistake.

Her hand fell on something hard, and she closed her fingers around the grip. She smashed the pistol against the side of his head, and he jerked back, dragging her with him by the neck.

Pop!

THIRTY

Jack whipped into the parking lot.

“Oh my God. Was that a gunshot?” Rowan looked horrified as he screeched to a halt beside Joy’s black Mercedes. “Jack?”

He jerked his gun from the holster. “Stay here. Do not get out!”

He jumped out of the Jeep and raced up to the door of casita seven.

***

The weight was crushing her, suffocating her, compressing her lungs. Joy shoved at his shoulder, but it didn’t budge. She heaved with all her might, and his massive body fell to the floor with a thud.

Pounding at the door. Joy kicked the covers away and glanced around, frantic.

Boom.

The door burst open, sending splinters flying. Jack Bruner rushed into the room, gun drawn, and Joy’s heart skittered. He looked from her to the groaning body on the floor beside her feet.

Joy flung the pistol onto the bed and held up her hands. “He attacked me,” she croaked, but her voice was barely audible.

Jack rolled Brett Leary onto his back, and the wound in his side gushed blood all over the tile. Jack patted him down and then glanced up. He reached across the bed and grabbed her pistol, then tucked it into the back of his jeans.

“He attacked me, and I shot him.” Joy rubbed her neck, transfixed by the growing puddle of blood.

“I called 911.”

Joy glanced up to see Rowan standing in the doorway, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“Get back in the car!” Jack bellowed.

Rowan didn’t move. “I called 911,” she repeated, looking at the splintered doorframe. Then she looked at Joy. “Are you all right?”

Joy stepped backward, bumping into the bed. She sat down, clutching her neck. Her throat felt like it was on fire, and she stared down at the expanding pool of red.

Jack grabbed the pillow off the bed and yanked the case off it. He wadded the fabric and pressed it against the wound. Seconds later, it was saturated.

Joy blinked down in shock. I killed him.

I killed him killed him killed him. He’s gone.

“Joy.”

She glanced up, and Rowan was standing there, holding her arm. “You’re bleeding, Joy.”

She looked down, startled by the streaks of scarlet on her white robe.

“Here, sit down,” Rowan tried to steer her to a chair. “Are you injured?”

“No, I’m—” She watched as Jack reached over and dragged a sheet off the bed to stanch the bleeding. “It’s his.”

Shaking off Rowan’s grip, Joy stepped back. She stared down at the face that had haunted her for twenty-eight years and watched the color drain out of it.

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