Page 74 of Coming Home

McGreer clucked his tongue. “You shouldn’t be. You were fucking brilliant. I’m brilliant myself. I was only sorry I got careless that one time and was charged.” He beamed. “Because I’ve raped and killed many times, Jackson. All blonds, just like your pretty little wife here.”

“Why?” he asked, wanting to keep McGreer talking while he tried to think of a way to stop him.

“Why? It doesn’t matter. I’m a product of incest, so I suppose that makes me a little crazy to begin with.” He stared hard at Jackson. “But I like to think I’m crazy like a fox.”

“You’ve already made a major mistake,” Jackson told the killer.

“What?” McGreer asked, his brow furrowing.

“You should have stuck with the Sam Johnson alias. The one you used when you contacted my former law practice. The one you used in Crescent Cove. You didn’t use it with Ainsley, though. You gave her your new, legal name. Anthony Abbott. I think you wanted to get caught.”

“Actually, I wanted to see if you would recall that’s who I said I would become,” the killer said, though Jackson could see alarm flare in the man’s eyes. “I was testing you, Jackson. And you failed miserably. If you would have remembered, you would have known your sweet piece of ass here was in danger.”

“That name is burned now. The police know it. They’ll be looking for you. Both the woman who ran the B&B where you stayed and one of Ainsley’s employees have already given the authorities an excellent description of what you look like now.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed McGreer’s face. “I don’t really need the Anthony Abbott name,” he said, a bit too hastily. “But I do like my new look. Shedding my glasses after so many years was liberating. Getting a decent nose and teeth also felt pretty damn good.”

“They’re working with a sketch artist now,” he told the killer. “Your face will soon be over all the different news outlets.”

“Fuck,” McGreer said, his face growing red.

“You don’t have time for Ainsley to come around. You need to get out of here now, McGreer. Abbott. Whatever you want to call yourself. Get a head start. Flee the Cove. I won’t call anyone. All I want is to take care of Ainsley.”

Jackson took two steps forward. Panic appeared on McGreer’s face. “Stop. Now.”

He did so, knowing he was closer than before. Almost close enough to lunge at McGreer. But the psychopath still held a gun to Ainsley’s head. Jackson couldn’t risk it going off.

“I’m sure you have money socked away. Lots of it,” he said encouragingly. “You’re a smart guy. The best there is at tech. You could get out of the Cove. Disappear for a while. Grow a beard. Shave your head bald. Have a little more plastic surgery. You might like your new look even better than this one.”

“I could,” McGreer mused before a dazzling smile lit his features. “Then come back for Ainsley someday. When neither of you would expect it.”

He didn’t understand the killer’s fixation with Ainsley—and Jackson couldn’t risk this man returning and taking his wife from him.

Jackson had to end this. Here and now.

He spotted what he hoped would do the trick. It would mean moving quickly. It might mean getting shot. But he needed to draw McGreer’s attention—and gun—away from Ainsley, who was too drugged to help herself.

McGreer reached into his pocket and tossed something onto the desk. A pair of handcuffs.

“Put them on,” the madman ordered. “Cuff your right wrist first.” He glanced around. “Then lock the other one around the handle of the stove over there.”

Jackson took two steps and reached the desk. If he wanted, he could even touch Ainsley. He picked up the handcuffs and slipped one around his right wrist as instructed, clicking it into place. Glancing up, he saw McGreer had finally turned the gun away from Ainsley and now pointed it at Jackson.

Just as he’d hoped.

He turned to go and then spun quickly, grabbing the vase of flowers that sat on the desk. He launched it at the gunman, heaving it hard, harder than any pitch he’d ever hurled at a batter. It struck McGreer in the face. The gun went off, the sound incredibly loud in the small apartment. A searing pain burned Jackson’s shoulder as he lunged for the killer, knocking McGreer off his feet and landing atop him.

Jackson jammed his arm against McGreer’s throat, pinning him to the ground. He reached for the killer’s right wrist and gripped it, slamming it against the ground three times before McGreer released the gun. It was just out of his reach. Jackson didn’t dare release McGreer’s wrist. Already, the psychopath tried to buck him off, punching Jackson’s side with his left hand.

He felt his strength begin to ebb, the pain in his shoulder now on fire. He couldn’t let this man live. McGreer was too great a danger to Ainsley.

Then the punches ceased and Jackson’s eyes flew to his right. McGreer had grabbed a sharp piece of glass from the shattered vase. Before he could try and slice Jackson with it, Jackson lunged for it, grabbing McGreer’s wrist in both his hands as it moved toward him. Leveraging his weight since he was on top of the killer, he was able to turn it back toward McGreer.

And moved it to his throat.

Jackson pushed with all the strength he had, McGreer pushing back in their deadly struggle. Then a crazed laugh sounded from the killer and he went limp. The glass plunged deep into his throat. Blood spurted. Jackson scrambled to his feet, his shoulder in agony. He glanced down and saw the bloodstain spreading. He grew lightheaded and leaned against the desk, pulling out his phone. He didn’t want to dial 911. Instead, he called Dylan directly.

“We’re above the bakery,” he gasped. “Need an ambulance.” His gaze fell to the floor, where Gerard McGreer’s frozen gaze stared at the ceiling. “McGreer’s... dead.”

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