Chapter Thirty-Four
Isabela didn’t see it coming.
Chris lunged, elbow slamming into Keith’s nose with a sickening crack. The gun went off, deafening in the narrow foyer. The bullet hit Chris as he dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his temple. Keith reeled back, howling through a broken nose.
The gun clattered to the floor. Isabela stood motionless for a long moment, a silent scream pouring from her open mouth. Chris was down and vulnerable. That spurred her into action. Her heels slipped against the hardwood as she lunged across the entryway, skidding to a stop at the gun.
She snatched it up, it’s weight heavier than she expected.
She had never held a gun before, never needed to.
Her hands shook so violently she could barely keep her grip, let alone aim.
Breath hitched in her throat as she turned back and found Keith bearing down on her.
Murder was etched into every bloodied line of his face.
He lunged, and her finger jerked, pulling the trigger before she even realized she’d chosen to.
The gunshot was a thunderclap. The recoil bit into her hands and sent a jolt up her arms. Her wrists screamed in protest as she staggered back. Keith stumbled. Blood bloomed across his chest. His mouth dropped open, but no words came out, just a rasp, and a choking noise.
Then he crumpled to the floor, making awful sounds. The gun slipped from her grasp. It hit the ground with a dull clunk. Chest heaving, her limbs locked in place. Her ears were ringing. She turned, frantic to help Chris.
He was sitting up now, slumped against the wall, hands slack at his side. Blood trickled down his neck. She dropped to her knees beside him.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Chris, you’re bleeding!”
He didn’t respond. His eyes were glazed over, and he couldn’t focus.
She needed to call 911, now. She patted down her pants, but her pockets were empty.
Then she remembered; Keith had taken her phone from her before forcing her into her car.
It was probably still in the backseat, discarded when he pulled the gun and ordered her to drive here.
She should never have brought him to Chris. What had she been thinking? This was her fault. All of it, not just today. She could see Chris’s chest rising and falling, but it looked slow, too shallow. She shook her head hard. There was no time for guilt. Chris needed an ambulance.
She stood abruptly, darting from the blood-slick floor. Her eyes scanned the living room, searching for Chris’s phone, but nothing jumped out at her. No phone on the counter. No landline.
Her eyes shot toward the front door, but she hesitated. Could she leave Chris alone? What if he needed CPR? What if she missed the moment that he needed her most? But staying wouldn’t save him either.
With a sob trapped in her throat, she raced to the door, flinging it open so hard it slammed into the wall. She darted down the front steps, blood on her hands, about to pound on the neighbor’s door when she heard it.
The wail of a siren. Relief flooded her system. Everything blurred after that.
First responders arrived like a tidal wave, shouting, rushing, cutting through the blood and chaos with gloves and stretchers.
They loaded Chris and Keith into separate ambulances as she stood back, trembling.
A kind woman draped a blanket over her shoulders, led her away, tried to get her to sit.
But she couldn’t, she leaned against a wall instead. She could barely think.
A pair of detectives arrived next, serious and stony-eyed. They questioned her, gently but firmly. She told them everything she could, about Keith, about Lorenzo, about what had happened in the townhouse. She said the words ‘he was going to kill us’ more times than she could count.
At some point, Randall showed up. The questions kept coming until he gave her a brief look, one filled with apology and promise.
“Treat her like a victim,” he ordered one of the detectives. “She gets nothing but respect. I’ll be at the hospital.” Then, he was gone.
It took hours before the crime scene was processed. The house was taped off. Keith’s status was unknow. He was still breathing when they wheeled him out of the townhouse.
When they finally told her she was free to go, she stood unsteadily in the foyer, barefoot because even her shoes were evidence. Her dad’s car, they explained, was being impounded. Also evidence now.
After using an officer’s phone, she sat on the steps outside, until a familiar truck pulled up. Nic barely got the vehicle in park before he rushed to her. She had given him the basic details of what had happened when she called thirty minutes ago for a ride.
Reaching her, he crouched down, eyes scanning her face to ensure she was whole. When he finally helped her stand, she let him take her into his arms and hold her. She couldn’t collapse, not yet.
Nic leaned back, glancing down at her. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”
“No.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Please, take me to the hospital.”
He sighed. “Izzy...”
“I need to see him,” she said. “I need to know he’s okay.”
Nic didn’t argue thankfully. He nodded, eyes tight with concern as he helped her toward his truck.
By the time they reached the ER, hours had passed since Chris had been shot. Isabela didn’t wait for Nic to park, she asked to be let out right in front of the hospital doors and bolted inside.
She crossed the waiting area to the triage desk where a woman in navy scrubs looked up, eyebrows raised.
“I’m looking for a patient who was brought in earlier tonight, Christopher Macklin. Gunshot wound to the head.” Her voice cracked.
The nurse frowned. “Are you family?”
“I’m his lawyer,” Isabela said breathlessly. “Please, just tell me if he’s okay.”
The nurse hesitated, then typed rapidly into her computer. “One moment.”
Isabela’s heart pounded like a drum. She shifted from foot to foot, eyes locked on the monitor as if she could force it to say what she needed to hear.
Finally, the nurse looked up. “He was treated and released.”
Isabela blinked. “But he was shot.”
The nurse’s tone was calm, professional. “Yes. A deep graze. It needed stitches and antibiotics, but he cleared concussion protocol. No skull fracture, no internal bleeding. He’s stable.”
Relief slammed into her chest so hard she swayed. But before she could steady herself, the nurse added matter-of-factly, “He’s already gone. Someone picked him up.”
The words hollowed her out. Relief twisted into something heavier, sharper.
Isabela exhaled shakily and nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
She turned slowly, walking back toward the doors where Nic now waited in the entryway, watching her with unreadable eyes.
“He left,” she said, her voice small. “He was released.”
“Then he’s okay?” Nic asked.
She nodded, but the relief didn’t sit the way she thought it would.
Nic’s face softened with understanding. He opened his arms, and she folded into them, stiff at first, then sagging as the truth settled.
“I’ll take you home now,” he murmured, his hand rubbing small circles against her back.
As she was led out of the hospital, the last several hours rushed at her.
The weight of it bending her inward. The reality of having pulled a trigger, of watching a man fall and not knowing if she’d killed him was almost unbearable.
The echo of the gunshot still rang in her ears.
Why hadn’t she been a faster thinker? Why didn’t she lead Keith anywhere else?
No wonder Chris hadn’t waited, hadn’t called her. He didn’t need her. Not anymore. Not after all this. She had done enough damage in a single day to last a lifetime.
Nic opened the truck door, and she climbed in. The feeling of helplessness overcame her. This time, under the cover of dark, she let herself cry.