He sees me eyeing you. “He’s pretty out of it…could be a concussion—” he shrugs. “Or it could be a brain bleed. Heaven knows he’s taken enough hits. In any case—not much he can do to help you now.”
He aims the gun at my chest, and I hate the way he reads me. He’s like you in that way, and a tiny part of me does suddenly see why he appeals to her. “So let’s have it.”
“Cher—is—” I start to say but I stutter when I see Brady moving from the corner of my eye. However my death will come, I can guarantee one thing, it won’t be in front of my child. I grip the teapot, lifting it fully. He orders me to put it down. When I look past him, over his shoulder, I see Brady is descending the stairs, step by quiet step. Also, it’s worse than I first thought. He’s holding your revolver. As he lifts it an
