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His hand goes behind his back. I see the flash of gunmetal in the golden chandelier light. Paul reaches for the gun, but he’s too slow. Someone- Thomas- grips my arm and yanks me aside. A bullet explodes past me, so loud, so loud, in a room full of people. Blood splatters my dress. Thomas swears.
Guests around me start screaming, but I don’t get the chance to. Thomas crushes me against his chest, his body turned to shield me from my uncle. His arm lifts, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand too. It levels on my uncle.
I don’t think. My hands shoot out, knocking Thomas’s arm aside. The gun goes off, shattering lights in the chandelier above.
All hell breaks loose.
The suited men by the door open fire. Three or four people in the crowd, hidden members of security, pull out guns and open fire. Thomas hauls me to the far side of the refreshments table. Derrick is with us, and the two of them flip the table onto its side with ease. Plates of food shatter over the floor, and bottles of wine explode on the tile. We duck beneath our flimsy barricade, and only then do I see the dark stain spreading over the side of Thomas’s suit.
“Oh my god- Thomas-!” I shriek.
Thomas pulls me into his chest again, his warm palm covering my ear and forcing me to lay my cheek against his warm pec, right above his heart. It’s not much of a buffer against the roar of the firefight, but it’s better than nothing. I cling to his suit jacket, not sure if I should close my eyes against this horror or be ready to run.
“It’s a graze,” Thomas grunts, his voice rolling through my bones instead of my ears. He peeks over the top of the table barricade, fires off a shot, then ducks back down.
“Just how many of your people did you smuggle in here?” Derrick asks. With my head pressed to Thomas’s chest, I can’t turn my head to see him, but I hear the cock of another gun. Did everyone show up to this party armed except for me?
“Not this many,” Thomas answers grimly. “You should’ve vetted your guests a little more carefully, Sheriff.”
So my uncle came fully prepared to stage a confrontation here. Alongside Warwick men disguised as guests were Speare men doing the same. I can’t stop the shiver that wracks my body, and Thomas’s arm tightens around me in response. I could have been grabbed at any moment if he wasn’t at my side for most of the party.
Of course, being snatched back to my uncle’s house is the least of our worries now. We’re far more likely to be shot to pieces before we can make it out of this room.
Something hits our table barricade and I shriek. A small dent appears in the underside of the metal table inches from Thomas’s arm, then another even closer. A gunshot right at my shoulder makes me flinch, but it must have been Derrick joining the firefight, because he mumbles breathlessly, “I think I hit him.” Thomas takes a second shot over the table, and someone across the room lets out a muffled, garbled cry.
Was that my uncle? Was it Paul?
Seconds later my uncle lets out a string of violent curses. The gunshots come more quickly, like they’re being laid down like cover fire instead of aimed at anyone particular. Thomas gets one last shot off. Then the room goes suddenly silent but for the whimpers of guests and Thomas’s heart pounding under my ear.
We wait for several seconds until Thomas looks out over the edge of the table. He takes a careful survey of the room. Whatever he sees encourages him to loosen his arm around my shoulders, just enough for me to sit up. Despite the protection of his palm, my ears are ringing. I take my own look over the edge of our barricade, my hands still clutching the lapels of Thomas’s suit front.
I can’t help the cry of horror that tears out of me at the aftermath.
Several bodies are splayed out on the floor between me and the door of the suite. Blood pools beneath them from multiple wounds, spreading lazily through the seams between each tile. Some are wearing the black uniforms of the security guards that came in during my uncle’s rant, but more are dressed as guests. I can’t tell if they were undercover for the Warwicks and the Speares, or just partygoers caught in the crossfire.
Whoever they were, death claimed them just the same.
I don’t see my uncle or Paul. The relief that hits me feels like a sin.
The remaining guests, living and injured, are still cowering beneath the banquet tables. There are some on their phones, I can only assume desperately calling the police, though surely the restaurant guests below called when they first heard the gunshots. That’s probably our cue to leave. Thomas pulls me to my feet, but it’s only his arm around my shoulders that’s keeping me upright. Derrick stands beside us, looking dazedly over the remains of his party.
To his credit, though, he doesn’t forget his civic responsibilities.
“Everyone, please remain in the room,” he commands over the guests. Several cry out in relief at the sight of him, at their shining new sheriff who managed to escape death. “The authorities are on their way. Anyone who’s been injured, if you could-”
Suddenly, one of the guests lets out a piercing shriek. Thomas stiffens beside me, but it’s just the wife of the D.A., still on her hands and knees beneath a table.
“Oh my god- oh my god!” she sobs, staring down at the body beside her. “He’s dead! Oh my god!”
The room descends into fresh chaos as guests scramble toward and away from the D.A.’s wife- or widow, I realize, as I catch a glimpse of his body through the crowd. Thomas takes swift advantage of the distraction, guiding me around the flipped table and straight toward the door. He steps high over shattered glass and spilled hors d’oeuvres and splattered blood, but my gait is clumsy. Every foot between us and the exit feels like it’s stretching further and further. Then I trip over something that gives way under my heel, and make the mistake of looking down.
Barnabas Harrow’s wide, empty eyes stare back at me. There’s a bloody hole in his throat.
I remember the garbled sound of someone being hit and my uncle’s faraway curses. He probably decided to retreat once his top man went down right in front of him.
My stomach is churning. The room is spinning. I feel my feet go out from under me and think I’ve fallen, but a moment later a door frame is passing overhead. Thomas is carrying my limp body out of the room, down the emergency stairs, and out of the building. When we get to his car, he sets me down on the passenger side and leans me against it- just in time for me to throw up on the asphalt. Vomit joins the splatters of food and blood around the hem of my dress.
Thomas doesn’t respond, not with anger or disgust or even surprise. He doesn’t speak either. He just unlocks my door for me and waits until I collapse inside the car before going around to the driver’s side. Police cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing pull into the parking lot, but we’re already peeling out.
