by Mira Gibson
Holly worked her way off the bed, her strength returning. “I won’t.”
“Then you will be forced to take a drug test, which you will fail. You will be exposed as an addict and you will lose guardianship.” He extended the contract, offering a pen with his other hand. “Humiliation is not what I want for you.”
“Clever.”
“Be reasonable,” he insisted.
“You tried to kill me.” Stampeding for the door, she heard the distinct click of Warren cocking a gun and halted, her heart punching up her throat, her hands rising in the air.
When she slowly turned, he stated, “I gave you an option.”
Staring down the barrel of the gun that had killed her sister, the incredible weight of their likeness crushing her heart—there was no telling where Rose ended and Holly began, she had embraced every facet of her dead twin right up until this very moment, a mere breath away from dying, from her own murder—her voice was filled with conviction, as she pleaded, “I want to be running.” Tears sprung from her eyes, rolling down her hot cheeks. Warren stilled as if intrigued. “When you kill me,” she spat the words out. “I want to be running out onto the lake, onto the ice. I want to feel the bullet slice through my back. I want to fall and skid and plummet into the icy water. I want to die in the exact same way. Not here.” She was sobbing now, trying to see through her tears. “Not like Benjamin. Like Rose.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Why?”
Sobering up, reeling in her emotions, she whispered, “You wouldn’t understand.”
He seemed to consider her request, but then straightened his arms, holding the gun firmly.
There was no doubt in her mind this was the end.
“Killing Rose didn’t solve your problems,” she yelled, spit flying from her mouth. “And killing me won’t either.”
“I beg to differ.”
“We filled out the paternity paperwork at the hospital,” she yelled and Warren’s face went slack. “Lucas York filed it with the State. He’ll have his son no matter what you do to me.”
The revelation struck Warren like a sandbag to his chest and he mulled the name over, “York?” as though he couldn’t accept it.
Glaring at him, she stated, “Now you know,” vaguely aware of the faint commotion coming from down the hall. It was muffled through the walls, but as she held the sick man’s gaze, listening hard, she realized it sounded like boots stomping over carpet, men running down the hallway.
Lucas yelled, “Holly!”
Sensing an ambush, Warren snarled, his finger tightening over the trigger.
BANG.
The last thing Holly saw was Lucas spilling into the room, his eyes white all around, stark panic on his face as she dropped to the ground, the gunshot ringing in her ears.
Her chest was on fire, but it wasn’t until her head bounced hard against the carpet that she realized she had been shot.
Epilogue
The late winter sun peeked between clouds overhead, brightening the pale blue sky, the melting snow where tulips had emerged along the shore, and the iced-over lake that was safe to skate so long as Lucas and Tucker didn’t venture out too far.
Holding his son’s hands, he glided backwards, his stance wide, zigzagging, while Tucker watched his skates, pushing off, left then right then left, getting a feel for the rhythm, flitting and drifting just like Daddy.
Lucas loosened his grip, releasing his son who wobbled, ass-out and ecstatic, into a rocky glide. Tucker shuffled his ice-skates until he came to a gradual standstill and applauded himself.
Lucas clapped as well, skating over then arching tight circles around him. He had never felt it before—pride. But that was how he felt every day with Tucker, every moment, proud to be his father, proud that Tucker was an extension of himself. The boy was timid and sweet and found humor in unsuspecting places. He also had a serious set of pipes and when he writhed in tantrums there was no mistaking who was really in charge. But for Lucas there was something deeply comforting even in those moments. Supporting his son through fits and helping him reconcile his emotions, filled Lucas’s heart with meaning and purpose, so bright and profound that at times he thought his soul might burst.
Caring for his son had transformed him. His heart hadn’t been made of tar, but coated in it and as if by magic, loving Tucker had worn away the muck and mire, releasing him.
If not for Holly, he wouldn’t be here, living this life, teaching his son to skate on a warm, breezy afternoon in mid-March—Hemlocks dripping along the shore, blades of grass pressing through the snow, the essence of new beginnings blossoming all around him.
Barging into Room 112 too late, witnessing her take a bullet—Holly falling, the terrible slam of dead weight to the ground, her head smacking against the floor—haunted him.
The scene had unfolded in gut-splitting chaos—Lucas charging to her, plummeting to his knees, his hands pressing her upper chest, blood hot and thick seeping through his fingers where he applied pressure just below her clavicle; Cody spilling in, shouting at Warren to drop his weapon, aiming his own gun at the killer who had almost gotten away with it all.
Lucas’s throat had gone raw screaming for an ambulance, as police officers swept in, apprehended the older man, forcing him to the ground and jerking his wrists together behind his back, Sarah looking on from the doorway in abject horror as though seeing her husband for what he truly was had scrubbed the drugs from her system.
It had felt like it was happening in slow motion, the epic delay before the medics arrived, Cody throwing blankets over Holly to keep her warm in the interim, insisting to Lucas that she was going to make it even though neither had been able to find a pulse. All the while, Lucas had wrestled his deepest fear, begging it not to come true—that he was losing her and this time it would be forever.
Tucker was yanking on his sleeve and when Lucas glanced down, his son challenged him to a race, indicating fifteen yards off where Roberta and Mary were dizzying themselves, skating circles while holding hands.
Lucas smirked at his son’s ambition, but just as Tucker was readying to shout, On your marks, get set! he shouted, “Mom!” instead, shuffling as best he could towards the shore where Holly seemed unsure about setting her skates on the ice.
She threw her hands up, locking eyes with Lucas as if to say, Will he ever believe us? Lucas and Holly had sat Tucker down several times, eventually with the help of a child psychologist, to gently explain his mother had passed away, Holly was his aunt, but the boy refused to accept it.
Lucas had to laugh. Reality wasn’t always easy. Tucker would get there in his own time.
Holly didn’t so much skate onto the ice as inch slowly, shuffling ass-out almost as precariously as her nephew, who neared her.
As Lucas glided over with the stealth of a hockey professional, the gratitude he felt for Holly’s recovery—as prolonged, as touch-and-go as it was—filled him.
In the hotel room that day, she had dove in the nick of time. The bullet meant for her heart had struck too high, too far to the right. According to the medics she had died more than once before reaching the hospital where doctors dug the bullet out and stabilized her. She had spent over a week in the I.C.U. then after transferring into recovery where she remained for two weeks she was finally released. Lucas had spent every spare minute he had with her during those grueling weeks at the hospital, holding her hand, helping her eat, complaining in private to the nurses when he was certain her room wasn’t warm enough. He’d brought Tucker with him as well when he thought he could handle it emotionally, and tended to his son otherwise when at home.
Roberta and Mary had been helping out, though trusting the secretive girls had taken more effort than he thought he had in him. It was Roberta who had convinced him. The fact that Lucas hadn’t turned her in or uttered so much as a word to his partner had gone a long way with Roberta. She’d wanted to prove herself and Lucas would’ve been a fool to deny her help.
Taking Hol
ly’s hands and nearly tripping over Tucker, who had wrapped himself around her leg like a barnacle, Lucas nodded towards the backyard. “Looks like lunch is on.”
“Already? I just got out on the ice,” she said, quickly glancing over her shoulder at Cody and Hannah who were setting food on a picnic table.
Beyond them Roberta’s parents were chatting on the back porch of the house, but were soon called over to the table, Hannah waving at them and gesturing with a six-pack of beer.
Whatever friction Lucas and Cody had suffered during their first month as partners was now gone and since Holly’s release from the hospital, the men had not only settled into a nice dynamic at the precinct, but had also become friends.
Tucker was yanking on Holly’s arm so she shot Lucas a smile and pushed off, skating with her nephew towards the shore.
Lucas took in the sight of it all—Roberta and Mary messing around near the tulips, the adults circling the picnic table and cracking beers open, the house Lucas shared with Holly, modest and blue and almost too charming to be real, in the background.
But it was real. This was his life.
Warren Wythe was convicted for the murders of Rose and Benjamin, for killing Ron Conover, and for the two attempts on Holly’s life. His wife, Sarah was in counseling. She’d filed for divorce and was now running the resort, her mind sharp and clear, no longer bogged down in the haze of her husband’s drugs.
As he skated towards the shore, feeling the warm wind on his face and taking in the picturesque scene, friends and family enjoying the afternoon, he realized that with so many secrets unearthed, even the ones he had kept from himself, he was no longer afraid. There was no risk of slipping into the abyss of his other half, losing control to his darker side, though he sensed it lying dormant within him.
He was free.
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THE NEW HAMPSHIRE MYSTERIES CONTINUED:
Read on for more dark, psychological thrillers by Mira Gibson where you will discover the origin stories of Mary Cole and Roberta King in these thrilling novels…
Daddy Soda (A New Hampshire Mystery, Book One)
Rock Spider (A New Hampshire Mystery, Book Two)
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ALSO BY MIRA GIBSON:
The Kensington Killers
(a three book series)
COLD DARK FEAR (Prequel to The Kensington Killers Series)
LUNATIC (available now)
CRANK (coming winter 2016)
MANIAC (coming spring 2017)
www.mira-gibson.com
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
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Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
If you liked this story, please CLICK HERE to join my mailing list where you will be the first to know about new releases, discounts, and giveaways!
www.mira-gibson.com
Copyright © 2016
Published by: Mira Gibson
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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