Always make a total effort, even when the odds are against you.
–Arnold Palmer
Brent
For more than a year now, I’ve been tempting the fates, knowing my heart could stop, just like that. Snap. Gone in a blink.
I haven’t cared that the exertion of playing out on the field or in practice could be exacerbating my condition. I’ve been a professional at denial. But not once in all this time have I been actually scared my heart would stop in my chest.
Until now.
I can’t get to Bethany’s apartment fast enough.
My heart is racing, breaking away every time I think about the fact she’s in trouble and I let her down.
I call the police on the way, asking for someone to go because she could be in danger.
Could be in danger?
There’s no time to explain the whole story. I hang up and park illegally because I don’t care about getting towed, not when the woman I love is in trouble.
I don’t even pause to examine that life-changing thought.
I love her.
It isn’t really a thought at all, but a fact, a truth I sense down to my bones.
No one’s buzzing me in and goddammit the super fixed the knob so I can’t even break in. This is what I get for being demanding and overprotective. I buzz various apartment numbers until someone finally hits the buzzer.
Bypassing the elevator, I run up the stairs like her life depends on it.
The door is locked. I knock frantically. There are noises. Muffled voices. I don’t have a key. I’ll have to pay for a new door because nothing is going to stop me from getting into this apartment.
I brace myself on the other side of the hall and run, shoulder first into the door.
“Ughhgnnfdhdhsd.” It hurts. They make it look so easy in the movies. I can’t believe they lied to me.
I pull out my phone. It’s been six minutes since I called the cops. They’ve got to be here soon. I have to think clearly. I need to figure out the best way to knock down a door. Feeling slightly ridiculous, but not wanting to keep ramming the door and break my shoulder for no reason, I google how to break down a door. It takes less than fifteen seconds to find the answer. A well-placed kick near the lock should do it.
It takes more than one kick, but finally there’s a crack and the door busts open, the lock breaking out of the frame.
Bethany’s there, tied to a chair, tape over her lips.
I immediately run to her, kneeling in front of the chair and reaching for the tape.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe before I rip the tape off.
“Motherfucker!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Hurry, untie me. She’s coming back any second now.”
I move behind the chair to wrestle with the ties at her wrist. “It’s Natalie, right?”
“Yes. How did you know to come?”
“I saw her on the video. And Roger traced where the money went from the article—into an account owned by Natasha Furmeyer.”
I move to her front and help her as she unties the knots at her feet.
“That name, why wouldn’t she change it?”
Before I have a chance to answer, there’s a voice at the door.
“I didn’t have time.” She’s here. In the doorway, gun pointed in our direction. “I didn’t think it would be this hard to find my uncle’s stash.”
“The cops are on their way,” I say.
“I’ll be gone before they get up here. Give me all the money you have on you.”
“I don’t have—”
“Empty your pockets!” she yells, moving into the living room, closer and closer.
“Okay, okay.” I lift my hands before slowly reaching into my pocket for my wallet.
“Move faster!” The gun twitches and then she’s pointing at Bethany. “Move faster or I shoot her.”
She’s shaking. Losing control.
My heart is pounding. I have to distract her from Bethany.
“I’m moving faster. Keep the gun on me, Natalie. Or should I call you Natasha?”
“Fuck you.” The sound of the gun cocking makes my heart beat triple time.
It’s still pointed at B.
Putting both hands up, I nudge Bethany with an elbow, hoping she’ll be able to follow my lead.
I need to distract Natalie long enough for the cops to get here.
I gasp and stumble forward. “Pain,” I grunt.
Natalie/Natasha watches me with narrowed eyes, a frown tilting at her lips. “Are you . . . faking a heart attack?”
“Not . . . faking.” I fall to my knees, clutching my right arm. Shit. Wrong side. I switch my grip to the other arm.
Bethany lets loose an inelegant snort.
I glance over at her while falling to the floor.
She’s laughing at me.
How can she be laughing at a time like this?
I collapse in a heap and slit my eyes up at Natalie. She’s got one brow lifted.
This clearly isn’t working.
A loud, strange sound fills the room.
Oo-eek, oo-eek.
“What the—” Natalie turns toward the door and Bethany uses the distraction to grab her wrist, tilting the gun at the ceiling.
The sound of the gun discharging thunders in the small space, making my ears ring and everything go whomp whomp whomp.
I have to help Bethany. I jump up to help her get the gun, but Steven’s already there, yanking the firearm and immediately popping the magazine out and dropping the bullets to the floor like a pro.
You go, birdman. There’s blood covering the side of his face from a gash near his hairline.
I move toward Bethany to help her restrain Natalie/Natasha but before I make it a step, the cops are in the doorway, guns drawn, all pointed at Steven.