The thought is clinical, like I’m not walking through a house full of dead bodies. This is just another problem to solve.
There. A gun, fallen next to one of the bodies. It’s a Glock, I think. My father has a few of these. He showed me how to use them when I was twelve, despite my mother’s protests.Everyone should know how to handle a gun, he’d said.Everyone should know how to check if it’s loaded, how to aim, and how to fire if they need to.
I never thought I’d need to.
I grab the gun, my hands clumsy. I check the grip and slide before I eject the magazine. I curse. There’s only five rounds. It’s not great but better than nothing. I slide it back in and chamber a round before I remove the safety.
The grip is slick with someone else’s blood but I hold it steady, my finger off the trigger like I was taught. My hands have stopped shaking. Actually,everythinghas stopped shaking. I feel oddly calm now, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s body.
I run through the dining room and freeze.
The table—the beautiful antique table where Leo and I had dinner for so many weeks—is splintered with bullet holes. The chairs are overturned, some broken into pieces. The China cabinet is shattered, expensive plates and crystal scattered across the floor like confetti. There’s blood splattered on the wall in a pattern that looks almost artistic if you don’t think about how it got there. If you don’t think about the fact that it used to be inside someone.
And there’s a man slumped against the wall near the destroyed cabinet. He’s still alive, I can see his chest moving, though the movements are shallow and wrong.
He’s wearing Brennan colors. One of my father’s men. He’s clutching his stomach and there’s blood seeping between his fingers. I recoil at the sight. There’s too much blood, dark and viscous, pooling on the hardwood floor beneath him.
When he sees me, his eyes go wide. “Emma?” His voice is wet and bubbling, like he’s drowning. “Emma Brennan?”
I freeze, my heart beating a staccato against my chest. My mouth grows dry as his voice envelopes me, tugging at my memory. I suddenly can’t breathe.
I know him. His name comes to me in an instant.
Michael O’Brien. He’s been with my father for…what, fifteen years? Twenty? I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t around. He drove me to school sometimes when I was younger because my father was paranoid about security. He always had strawberry lollipops in his pocket because he knew they were my favorite. He taught me how to throw a football when I was eight because my father was too busy.
He has a wife. Caroline? Catherine? I can’t remember. And he has two kids. Thomas and Sophie. I met them at the company Christmas party several years ago.
And now he’s dying on Leo’s dining room floor and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Michael,” I breathe, heading toward him. My hands are shaking again, the gun nearly slipping from my grip. I set it down on the floor next to me and kneel beside him, trying not to think about the blood soaking into my leggings.
“Your father—” he coughs, and blood flecks his lips, bright red against pale skin. “He’s looking for you. He’s—Emma, you need to get out of here. You need to?—”
Another coughing fit. More blood. I can hear the rattle in his lungs and can see the way his skin is going gray.
“Don’t talk,” I say, my voice cracking. My hands hover uselessly over his stomach wound. The first aid training my mother insisted I take is trying to surface through my panic. Apply pressure. Elevate. Keep them calm. Call for help.
But there’s so much blood and his lips are turning blue. I don’t think any amount of pressure is going to fix this. There’s no one who could get here in time even if they wanted to.
Michael’s going to die and we both know it.
“Michael, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotion as my eyes burn with tears. “I’m so?—”
“Not your fault.” Somehow he manages a smile, showing blood on his teeth. “It’s never your fault, kid. Your father…he’s not thinking straight. He hasn’t been since you…since the wedding.”
His hand fumbles for mine and I take it, holding tight. His skin is cold. Too cold.
“Leo Santoro,” Michael says, his grip tightening with surprising strength. “He’s…he’s going to kill your father. Or your father will kill him. They’re—main hall—Emma, you have to stop them. Have to?—”
“I will,” I promise, though I don’t know how or even if I can. “I will, Michael. I promise.”
“Good. Good girl.” His eyes are losing focus, looking past me at something I can’t see. “Catherine. Tell Catherine I…tell her I’m sorry. Tell the kids their dad…”
His voice trails off and his grip loosens.
“Michael?” I shake him slightly, panic now in my every movement. “Michael! Stay with me. Michael!”
Nothing. His chest isn’t moving anymore. His eyes are still open but there’s nothing behind them. He’s gone.