Page 129 of Over Her Dead Body

So do I.

The guard drops the painting and grabs for his face. The man behind the desk doubles over coughing, then reaches blindly for the frame as it falls.

I spent the last five minutes convincing him I understood how much he loved that painting.

I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.

I drop the canister and reach behind the frame for the gun while he tries to save the painting.

My hand closes around the grip, and I tear the gun free.

The painting slips anyway and hits the floor.

The sound he makes has nothing to do with the pepper spray.

I’m already moving.

My eyes are watering hard enough to blur the door. The back of my throat burns. Behind me, one man is coughing, the other is swearing, and neither sounds close enough to matter yet.

Then someone catches the back of my dress.

I jerk forward.

The seam tears at my shoulder.

His grip goes with it.

I clamp the gun under my left arm and grab the door handle with my right hand.

My palm slips, leaving blood across the brass.

Second try.

The handle turns.

I’m through the door before anyone behind me can decide which disaster to deal with first.

I take the gun back in my right hand and hit the stairs at a run.

Someone shouts below.

I keep moving.

By the time I reach the landing, a man is coming up.

He sees me.

Stops.

His gaze moves from my face to the gun.

I raise it.

“Move.”

He looks past me toward the room upstairs.

His attention comes back to me.