Page 42 of Dirty Liars

“Down, down!” Jack shouted, grabbing me and pulling me toward the door.

Another shot rang out, the bullet embedding itself in the doorframe inches from my head. Wood splinters stung my cheek as Jack dragged me inside, throwing me behind the kitchen island as he drew his weapon.

“Stay down,” he ordered, his voice deadly calm despite the chaos. He was already on his phone, calling for backup, giving our location with precision.

I looked past him to the balcony where Max Ortega lay facedown, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him. His water bottle had rolled to the edge of the balcony, teetering there, before finally falling over the side.

My hands trembled as I wiped blood from my face. The metallic smell filled my nostrils, making my stomach turn. In the distance, I could hear sirens already wailing.

“Jack,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on Max’s body. “Look at his foot.”

The impact of the bullet had knocked Max’s body in such a way that one of his bare feet was visible, sole facing up. And there, clear as day on the bottom of his foot, was the same pattern of dots we’d found on Theo and Chloe.

“We’re dealing with something bigger than a jealous lover or a professional hit,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “This is systematic. They’re eliminating everyone with that tattoo.”

“And everyone who might know what it means,” Jack added grimly, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings for the shooter.

I realized with chilling clarity that Max had known exactly what the pattern meant. And he’d died rather than tell us.

CHAPTERTWELVE

I couldn’t stop shaking.

The taste of copper filled my mouth, and I realized I’d bitten my tongue when Jack had thrown me to the floor. I sat with my back against the kitchen island, my knees drawn to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. My hands were coated in Max’s blood, dark crimson already starting to dry and crack in the creases of my palms. I could feel it on my face too, splattered across my cheeks and forehead like some macabre war paint.

One second. That’s all it had taken. One second between Max Ortega being alive—his lips forming words, eyes narrowed in careful calculation as he measured what to tell us—and the next, his skull exploding in a spray of bone and brain matter. If Jack had moved a half step to the right, if I had leaned forward to hear Max better, that bullet could have found either of us instead.

The roar of the gunshot still echoed in my ears, a phantom sound that wouldn’t fade. Beside me, Jack crouched in tense vigilance, his weapon drawn, dividing his attention between the balcony door and the windows that faced the street. His face was a rigid mask, but I could see the barely contained fury in his eyes.

My own rage was building beneath the shock, clearing the fog of disbelief. Someone had tried to kill us—or at the very least, hadn’t cared if we were collateral damage. Outside, I could hear the approaching sirens, their wail cutting through the quiet afternoon. Voices shouted in the street below as officers secured the perimeter.

The baby.

My hand instinctively moved to my stomach, still flat but no longer empty. I’d been so caught up in the immediate danger that I hadn’t even thought about the tiny life growing inside me. For a dizzy moment, a surge of nausea threatened to overwhelm me—not morning sickness this time, but pure, primal fear.

Jack must have sensed my spiraling thoughts. His blood-spattered hand found mine, squeezing gently.

“We’re okay,” he said, his voice steady. “We’re okay.”

But we weren’t okay. Max Ortega was dead. His body lay just feet away from us, cooling in the afternoon breeze that drifted through the shattered glass of the balcony door. And whoever had killed him was still out there, methodically eliminating anyone who might know what those tattoos meant.

They were cleaning house. And judging from the precision of that shot, they were professionals.

“Sheriff!” I heard a familiar voice call out from downstairs.

“We’re in here, Cole,” Jack said, his voice unnaturally calm despite the carnage surrounding us. “Anyone see the shooter?”

Heavy footsteps thundered up the spiral staircase, and Cole appeared in the doorway, weapon drawn. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—Max’s body sprawled on the balcony, the blood-spattered walls, and Jack and me huddled behind the kitchen island. He holstered his weapon and stepped carefully into the apartment.

“Not that we’ve found,” Cole said, coming into the kitchen and getting a good look at both of us. His professional demeanor couldn’t quite mask his shock at our blood-soaked appearance. “We’ve got checkpoints set up in a three-block radius, but nothing has popped so far. The only place he could have made that shot from was the bell tower of the cathedral.”

Jack stood and held out a hand to help me to my feet. My legs felt weaker than I wanted to admit, and I leaned into his strength more than I intended. The dizziness was returning, and I focused on my breathing to keep from passing out. In, out. Simple. Mechanical. One step at a time.

“Are you two okay?” Cole asked, concern etching deep lines around his eyes. “You’re not hit?”

“No,” I said, taking assessment of my body now that I was standing. My medical training kicked in, pushing aside the personal horror to make room for professional detachment.

“Anything on us belonged to the victim. I need an evidence bag.”

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