The Golden Hour

by L. M. Halloran

  Enzo’s bulk moves in my periphery. “We’re getting off track.”

  Vivian fluffs her hair, visibly calming herself. “Yes, right, we are. Callisto, it’s time for you to call your troublesome boyfriend and have him join the party.” Almost as an afterthought, she nudges Meredith’s leg with her shoe. “She can go once we have what we want.”

  She doesn’t bother sounding sincere.

  “No,” I answer. “Let her go now, and I’ll write my suicide note myself. I’ll make it ten times more convincing than whatever bullshit you’ve come up with.”

  Vivian’s eyes narrow, glittering with twisted humor. “Tempting, but no. I don’t negotiate.” She nods at Franco, who tosses me a cell phone. “Don’t make this difficult. Do it, or I let Enzo play with our guest.”

  Bile burns my throat.

  I’m running out of time.

  Think, Calli. Think.

  “Since it doesn’t matter anyway, what did you want me to find at Uncle Ant’s ranch?”

  “Curious till the end, aren’t you? I guess there’s no harm in the truth. Your father, sentimental as he was, wrote Anthony a letter from prison. It’s rather inflammatory. A lot of false accusations.”

  I nod, understanding. “It was about you.”

  She clicks her tongue. “It’s irrelevant now. Wherever it is, it will be smoke and ash soon. Just like you.”

  It takes everything I have and then some to keep my expression neutral. “Ahh, so that’s how it’s going down. Let me guess—I’ve been hiding a secret drug addiction. Finn must have gotten me hooked. We went to the ranch to partake, only we ended up burning the place, and ourselves, to the ground. Tragic story with a tragic end. The press will love it.”

  Vivian only smiles.

  I make myself look at Enzo. “Dad didn’t give the order to kill Anthony, did he?”

  Enzo stares at me coldly, unblinking, which is answer enough.

  “Of course not,” Vivian supplies. She’s gleeful. Gloating. “Rafael didn’t have the balls to do what needed to be done. None of them did.”

  “But you did,” I tell her. “You rose up from nothing, didn’t you?”

  “You’re damn right I did.” She points at Lizzie. “You should be proud of your mother. Imagine how many Avellino men are rolling over in their graves with a woman in charge of the family!”

  “You’re not a feminist, Vivian,” I say flatly. “You’re an egomaniacal, delusional bitch.”

  Enzo takes a threatening step forward, but Vivian shakes her head. Moving close to Meredith, she gives her dark curls a brief pat, then wiggles her fingers at Franco.

  He hands her a gun.

  “I’ll make this easy for you,” she coos. “Call your boyfriend or I blow her brains out.”

  With practiced ease, Vivian points the gun at Meredith’s head, her finger steady on the trigger. My heart lurches into my throat. Meredith closes her eyes, lips moving in a silent prayer.

  Lizzie mutters, “On my bedspread, really?”

  “I’ll do it!” I gasp. “Please, just put the gun down!”

  Vivian nods. “Put the call on speaker, if you don’t mind.”

  I can barely breathe, oxygen struggling to reach my lungs through a vise of sheer terror. Fingers shaking, I punch in memorized numbers and hit Send. Three rings resonate in the room before the line opens with a click.

  “Marlow’s Pizza, what can I getcha?”

  For a second, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say.

  “What the—” begins Franco, pushing away from the wall.

  It comes to me in a flash.

  “Spaghetti!” I yell, then dive toward the door.

  I don’t see anyone’s reaction, because the window nearest Vivian explodes inward. Something hits the floor with a thump. There’s a low, whooshing noise and smoke pours toward the ceiling.

  “Get down!” yells Enzo.

  More glass shatters, this time when Franco—arm over his face—grabs the canister and chucks it back outside. But the damage is done. Everyone’s coughing, the room thick with acrid smoke.

  “No! No! No!” screeches Vivian.

  “Lights, Elizabeth!” hollers Enzo.

  Seconds later the bedroom goes dark. Now or never. Holding my breath, I lunge for where I last glimpsed Meredith. Thankfully she’s not far, having dragged herself halfway to the door. I grab her, pressing my lips to her ear.

  “Come with me,” I whisper, my throat on fire from the gas. I feel rather than see her nod. Under the cover of smoke and chaos, we make it into the hallway.

  Into the collar of my shirt, I wheeze out, “I have her. We’re out of the room.” Then I haul Meredith to her feet and shove her toward the stairs. “Go!”

  She runs awkwardly, her bound hands held to her chest. At the head of the stairs she glances back, her eyes widening when she sees me not following. She hesitates a moment, then disappears down the stairs. Smart woman. Smarter than me, that’s for sure.

  I flatten myself to the ground outside the bedroom.

  Gunshots and yelling form a gruesome symphony inside. I can’t hear the answering shots from the police, but I can see them—chips of wood and puffs of plaster raining through the air.

  My legs itch madly with the need to run to safety, but I can’t. I’m glued to my spot by guilt and desperation. Eventually, the bullets taper off and stop, replaced by loud ringing in my ears. I edge closer to the doorway, knowing full well what I’m doing is foolish. Reckless. Crazy. But I have to try to get Lizzie to come with me.

  Floodlights blast light through the bedroom’s windows, so intense the hallway is illumined too. My uncles curse. Lizzie cries out in pain. I almost do, too, and bite down hard on my hand to stay quiet. My eyes, still sensitive and streaming from the gas, feel about to burst.

  From outside, a tinny, amplified voice calls, “This is the police! We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Franco. “The yard is crawling with SWAT. They’ve gotta be in the house by now. What are we going to do? How do we get out?”

  Lizzie starts crying.

  “Shut up,” snarls Enzo, then to his brother, “You told me Calli didn’t make any calls or stops on the way here!”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Then how the fuck is this happening?”

  “You must have missed something,” Franco hisses back. “Did you even check her for a wire? She was asking all those questions for a reason, getting Vivian to spill her guts. We’re fucked. So fucked.”

  “Mom?” whimpers Lizzie. “Mom, wake up! Oh my God, she’s bleeding bad. Do something!”

  “Serves her right for waving a gun out the window,” snaps Franco. “She got too big for her britches. Idiot thought she was bulletproof.”

  “Shut your mouth,” growls Enzo, “or I’ll shut it for you.”

  Franco’s voice only rises, panic mounting with every word. “Vivian screwed us over big-time. Big-time. And you know what? I’m not going down this way. I’m not taking the fall for you psychos.”

  “Don’t even think about it, brother.”

  I’ve never heard Enzo’s voice so cold, so empty, and I shuffle back from the doorway on instinct, knowing something bad is about to happen.

  “Fuck you,” says Franco. There’s a burst of movement in the room. Glass crunching, shifting.

  “No, don’t—” Lizzie’s words are interrupted by a gunshot and a thunk as something—someone—hits the floor. I cover my mouth with my hands to stifle my whimper.

  Enzo spits loudly. “Coward.”

  Lizzie’s tears intensify, then cut off abruptly. My body goes cold. No… Then she sniffs loudly, and I sag against the wall with relief.

  “I know you don’t like guns, kid, but take this. I thought if we could get to the garage...” Enzo sighs heavily. “That time has passed. They’ll be on us soon. Let’s give ’em everything we got on our way out.”

  Lizzie sniffs again. Her voice comes soft and hoarse
, “You murdered Anthony and Franco. My daddy. All three of your brothers. Who does that? I’d never hurt Ellie or Calli, no matter how mad I was at them.”

  Silent, man-shaped shadows spill into the hallway from the stairs. Narrow red beams flash over the walls, over me. My extremities are mostly numb, but a trickle of adrenaline allows me to lift my hands over my head. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.

  “You told me David raped Calli.” Lizzie’s voice is stronger now. “You said killing him was the right thing to do. But he loved her, didn’t he? They loved each other.” She pauses. “I hurt good people because you told me to.”

  “Come off it, kid. You like it—no, you love it. You’re just like me.” He snorts. “And you can stop it with the my poor daddy shit. You know damned well I’m your father.” There’s a small pause, then, “Elizabeth, stop right now. Don’t make me shoot you!”

  The first set of boots pass me, then another. They move fast, so fast, a dark wave surging into the bedroom.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  “Drop the knife! Don’t move! Hands up!”

  “Clear!”

  “Clear!”

  “Three down, one in custody—”

  I don’t hear anything else.

  40

  One Week Later

  My eyes closed, I listen to the steady beep, beep of the monitor, underlaid with the low hum of an air-conditioning unit near the window. Doors open and close, muffled by walls. Voices rise and fade—nurses and doctors, moving with purposeful footsteps. Tireless in their commitment to saving lives.

  Even hers.

  Although she’s out of the woods, I haven’t left her side. I want to be the first face she sees when she wakes. I want her to know she isn’t alone.

  The sun rises. There are other visitors. Some new, some familiar. Doctors, detectives. Shift changes for the armed officer stationed outside the door. Even handcuffed to a hospital bed and recovering from a twelve-hour surgery, she’s considered a flight risk.

  The sun sets. I sleep off and on, my head pillowed on a sweatshirt, my legs beneath a thin blanket. Night nurses come in intervals, work quietly, then leave. I sleep again, lulled by the beep, beep of her heart.

  When the sun has begun another ascent, I jolt awake at an unfamiliar noise.

  She’s coming around.

  Pale light filters through the blinds, striping her face with gold. Scooting forward, I reach for her cold fingers. They squeeze back, the handcuff clinking against the bedrail.

  Her bruised eyelids flicker at the sound, then open. “Where—” Her face contorts as pain finds her.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

  Some of the confusion leaves her eyes. “Callisto?” she croaks.

  I stroke the blond hair from her brow. “You’re going to be just fine.”

  “No,” she whispers, jerking her head away from my touch. “No.”

  “Don’t worry,” I soothe. “They had to take out your spleen and some of your large intestine, but you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  She moans, eyes rolling in panic. She tries to yank her fingers from mine, but the handcuff stops her.

  “Enzo?” she whispers.

  “He’s gone. So is Franco.”

  The beeping intensifies as her heart rate spikes. Any minute, an alarm will sound and a nurse will come.

  But I don’t need long.

  “I’m so glad you made it through surgery. It would have been a real tragedy if you’d died.”

  She whimpers, chin quivering. Tears leak from her closed eyes. “Just kill me,” she whispers. “You want to, I know you do.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not like you. And thank God for that. Plus, that would be too easy. You don’t deserve easy.”

  I gather my purse, sweatshirt, and the small bag with my change of clothes and toiletries, then head for the door.

  “Please.”

  My hand on the doorknob, I pause. The officer outside sees me and stands, a question on his face. At my nod, he waves to someone down the hall.

  “D-don’t leave me like this. No matter what’s happened, we’re family.”

  “No, we’re not.” I meet her gaze a final time. “I hope you enjoy a long, healthy life in prison, then spend eternity rotting in Hell. Goodbye, Vivian.”

  The door closes behind me, and I take my first deep breath in a week.

  Detective Wilson strides toward me, two nurses on her heels. At Wilson’s nod, the officer opens Vivian’s door and follows the nurses inside.

  “Finally awake, huh?”

  I nod, fatigue rolling heavily across my shoulders. “She didn’t even ask about her. Whether or not she survived. What kind of mother…” I trail off, blinking rapidly.

  Wilson touches my arm. “A shitty one. You can spend a lifetime trying to understand the pathology of a criminal like her, but you never will.”

  I nod again. “You’re right. Thank you for everything.”

  She smiles. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Do you want to go now, or do you need some downtime?”

  I suck in a breath. “I’m ready. Unless you want to stay? You’ve been waiting days to question her…”

  Wilson smiles gently. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

  As we walk toward the elevator, it opens on another detective and two more uniformed officers. My stomach tightens as I scan their faces. Can they be trusted? Wilson exchanges a few low words with the detective, then follows me onto the elevator.

  As the doors slide closed, she says, “There are officers stationed at every entry and exit point in this hospital. No other patients are on this floor. And no one I haven’t personally vetted is allowed anywhere near her room.”

  I smile halfheartedly. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Nah. I’m that paranoid. Until Vivian Avellino stands trial and is sentenced, we’ll be watching her like a hawk.”

  “Any word on Hugo Barnes?” To no one’s surprise, Hugo went MIA the morning after what happened at the house.

  Wilson grins. “I got word last night that customs nabbed him on his way out of the country with a suitcase full of cash.”

  Another knot inside me releases. “Good.”

  The elevator doors open and we walk side by side toward the hospital’s entrance. My gaze trained on the floor, I don’t notice Wilson slowing until she clears her throat.

  I look up.

  Standing near the entrance in a pool of golden sunlight, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an extra-large cup of coffee in the other, is Finn.

  When our eyes meet, he smiles. A little hesitant. Mostly hopeful. I haven’t answered his calls or returned his texts, even the one telling me his mom was okay, that she and Molly were on their way back to Solstice Bay.

  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see him, or haven’t missed him. The opposite, in fact. He’s never far from my dreams and waking thoughts. But I needed time to process, to accept. To come to terms with the fact he might hate me for what I did. Disappearing in the middle of the night—doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t. What I put him through… he should hate me.

  And yet here he is.

  Wilson murmurs, “I hope you don’t mind. I thought you might want some extra support for this.”

  “I don’t mind,” I tell her.

  My madly thumping heart leads my feet forward, but I can barely meet his too-blue eyes. “Hi, Finn. It’s good to see you. I—uh…” My throat closes.

  I’m sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.

  He hands me the flowers. “These are for you.”

  “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

  As I lower my face to smell the bouquet, he asks, “Are you done yet?”

  Registering the playful tone, my head snaps up. I see his smile. Look into his bright, laughing eyes.

  “Done with what?”

  “With pretending we’re over.” His smile grows.
“Because, princess? We’re just getting started.”

  41

  Despite chugging half her coffee, Callisto spends the drive asleep with her head on my chest. I’m content to suffer pins and needles in the arm wrapped around her and wedged against the hard seat.

  I’m not letting her go. Not for anything.

  Holding her is my reward for the herculean level of patience I’ve demonstrated for a week. Not seeing her, hearing her voice, or touching her has been the single most difficult test of my life. I’ve been an emotional mess, alternately angry with her, afraid of losing her, and mad with longing.

  If not for my mom and Aunt Molly repeatedly laying it out for me—you’re in love, dummy—I might have done something stupid like flee the country.

  “First time in the back of a police car?”

  I meet Detective Wilson’s amused gaze in the rearview. “Actually, no. I was arrested at fifteen. I swear we didn’t know our principal’s car windows were open when we threw all those eggs.”

  She smirks. “And you look like such an upstanding citizen.”

  I grin, well aware that with my tattoos on display and my hair a week past the boundary between disheveled and derelict, I look like I belong back here.

  “Now now, Detective, by this point in your career I’m sure you’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover.”

  She sobers immediately, her gaze flickering to Callisto. “Damn right I have.” She shakes her head, eyes back on the road. “She sure doesn’t look like undercover material, but I gotta say her performance that night was flawless.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  I’m still sore about Callisto leaving with no word and putting herself in massive danger, but I’m learning to live with it. She saved my mom’s life and probably mine. And she did it the right way, calling Wilson from her burner phone after she left the loft.

  But there’s still a lot I don’t understand.

  Seizing the opportunity, I ask, “How did you know?”

  Her brows lift. “What do you mean?”

  “You had to have known something was going down that night. Don’t bother trying to convince me you called the cavalry and had them in place within twenty minutes of Callisto calling you. So, how did you know?”