Alex braced herself to die. She understood it would happen in mere moments. She saw murder in Evan’s eyes, and God only knew what was swimming through that man’s veins. She’d watched him guzzle down most of the contents of Ken’s prized whisky, and the alcohol would certainly interact poorly with whatever narcotics Evan likely had in his system.
She could dive at him, Alex supposed. Or maybe she’d try to use one of the paperweights on Ken’s bookcase as a weapon. But she couldn’t risk it, especially not while Evan was raising his hand, bringing the gun level with her head, and certainly not when the look in his eyes showed his intent to pull the trigger.
Brooke bought them more time, pleading with Evan to reconsider, swearing that they’d keep his secret. We can work this out. You’re not this person. You’re not a killer. She tried all the clichés, to no avail.
Alex briefly imagined Nick coming to her rescue, crashing through the window like a warrior prince, disarming Evan with a single knockout punch. But that was nothing more than a flash of hope, a shimmering mirage that her mind had conjured to help her cope with the inevitable. It was hard to believe that their last interaction had been the worst of their entire marriage.
Alex braced herself for the shot. A desperate scream escaped her: “Evan, NOOO!”
Her chest caved in on itself when she heard a terrible crash, but it wasn’t the gunshot she had expected. Instead, it was the sound of glass shattering everywhere.
Startled, Evan spun in the direction of the disturbance, looking through the office door and away from Alex, bringing the gun with him as he rotated at the waist.
Alex did not hesitate. This was her only chance. As Evan moved, so did she, reaching for the heavy glass paperweight on the bookcase. One moment she was without a weapon, and then just like that, she was armed. No sooner did she have the object in her hand—a clear glass orb encasing a kaleidoscope of small colorful beads—than she was fully engaged. Her arm came forward like a whip with her eyes locked on her target—Evan’s head, to be precise.
With a rush of adrenaline, Alex released the paperweight to deliver a direct hit, or so she hoped. Evan turned away from the sound of the shattered glass in the hall toward Alex, who had just completed her throw. If he saw the paperweight coming at him, he didn’t have time to move out of the way.
Indeed, Alex had delivered a strike, one that connected powerfully with Evan’s shoulder. It was, unfortunately, the left shoulder—attached to the arm holding the bottle of whisky, not the gun. Evan dropped the thick glass bottle, which landed on Ken’s antique area rug with a dull thud, as the gun in his other hand went off.
The bullet sank harmlessly into a nearby wall, splintering plaster but nothing more.
Evan adjusted his aim, staring directly at Alex. She thought of charging, but worried that would make her an easier target. Her thoughts dulled as the world around her lost all color, her field of vision blurring. She prepared once more for the sting of death, but instead heard a series of gasps and choking sounds come from Evan.
Alex’s vision cleared in time to see him rocking on his heels, suddenly unsteady on his feet, as if a slight breeze could topple him over. His face turned gray. Each wheezing breath he managed came with great effort. Unable to hold his arm out straight, Evan could no longer aim the gun at any target. An odd gurgling sound bubbled in his throat as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
What the hell was going on with him? wondered Alex. Was he having a heart attack? A seizure?
Evan finally lost his balance completely, falling backward as he went. He began to raise his arms in a pointless attempt to arrest his fall. For a split second, the gun was pointed straight at his own head.
A shot rang out. A spurt of blood exploded from Evan’s skull as his body landed hard on the floor, not far from Ken’s body.
Alex couldn’t see exactly where the bullet had landed, but the blood pouring out, fast and steady, told her with absolute certainty that no bandage or first-aid technique she could employ would save his life.