Page 164 of Westin

I’m so quiet inside.

This is, without a doubt, the hardest shot I’ve ever taken, and it has the highest stakes. I can’t miss. I promised my girl she’d have everything, and I intend to make good on that.

Their vehicle is almost at the center of the bridge. I recognize it as the truck Corbin Buchanan showed up in, his company logo a pale smear on the side.

I have no time left.

Everything clicks into place at the last second, the product of years of practice. I see the sliver of the window. I know where the driver sits. I think I see a glimpse of his face, like a pale half-moon. The truck window comes into full view, going fifty miles an hour at least.

My finger comes down on the trigger, and I account for the kick.

I account for everything, the way he trained me to.

The wind.

The dark.

The miles.

I swear, I feel the mechanics of the pistol click into motion.

In fifty years, this bullet will be nothing but a story, just like the rest of it—the hot summer day I fed her apple from my mouth, the pining, the secret tryst by the cemetery, the bullet in Avery’s head, and now, the greatest shot I’ll ever take.

The world is so tranquil, it’s hard to believe it’s still spinning. I lift my head, heart steady, eyes fixed on the truck. It keeps on in a straight line for a few seconds, not wavering.

My stomach sinks. Fuck, I missed.

Then, it veers, grazing the guardrail and sending up sparks. The wheels spin out of control, and it flips. A crash echoes through the valley before it rolls over the edge and falls.

And falls.

There’s a second explosion as it collides with the water. I know there’s nothing left, not from that height. The two men and their truck are in shreds, rolling down the current.

My shoulders sink. I rise until I’m on my knees, looking out over the empty road.

Hot wind ruffles my hair. The moon glimmers overhead.

They’re gone.

I sling the rifle up over my shoulder. Tonight is my wedding night, and my work here is done.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

DIANE

Keira left after sitting with me in silence. We finished our tea, and I swore I was fine as she gave me a hug before going back to the ranch house.

I sit, staring at the wedding present she left, custom-made and gifted by the Sovereigns: two fine crystal glasses with Mr. and Mrs. Quinn engraved in gold on the rims and a bottle of expensive whiskey to go with them.

Reality has sunk in.

My husband killed my brother tonight—the man who hurt me beyond repair.

I don’t know how I should feel.

Is it wrong to be a bit relieved? After everything David did to me, maybe it’s better he can’t inflict anymore hurt on the world. I get up, taking the glasses and the bottle upstairs to the bedroom. I pull the curtain open, letting blue moonlight pour through. It’s soft, like a velvet pool across our bed.

I strip and replace the sheets with fine, dark ones that smell faintly of the vanilla sticks and lemon waxed paper I keep in the dresser drawer. Then, I go to the closet and take everything from the cabinet.

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