Page 87 of PSYCHOlogical

“It was the best idea I could come up with.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry, it’s deactivated.”

“Is everyone dead?”

“Not yet.”

I wiped my eyes with the heels of my palms. “How many?”

“Two.”

He draped his arm across my shoulders and turned toward the door. With my weight against him, he led me out of the room. Upon stepping into the hallway, I recognized the home. My face flushed with anger.

I paused.

“What?” he asked.

“Is one of them a blond woman?”

He nodded. “She’s in the front room.”

“Alive?”

“She’s got a bullet in each thigh, but she’s alive.”

I held out my hand. “Can I have your gun?”

He gave me a look.

“Please?”

With expressed reluctance, he handed me the gun.

I limped toward the living room.

“That’s not a simple revolver,” he explained. “It’s a semiautomatic .45. It kicks like a mule.”

I cleared the end of the hallway and stepped into the same living room that I’d spent every weekend in for the last three years. Bits and pieces of my life had been shared while laughing over B-rate movies and silly television shows. Tears shed during the many holidays I spent alone. Reluctantly, I revealed my scars to them. Proudly, I exposed my strengths. Gazing into the room, I felt far more vulnerable than I could ever remember feeling. Betrayed. Lied to. I scanned the room.

Jordan was on the floor, beside Jack’s favorite recliner. Upon seeing her, I stopped in my tracks.

Her wrists and ankles were bound. Her mouth was taped shut. Blood was pooled on the floor around her. For the time being, she was no longer a risk. Even so, my muscles tensed. Our friendship was a farce. I felt like a fool for allowing myself to trust her and the man who I expected posed as her husband.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Was she armed when you came in?”

“She was,” he replied. “She took a shot at me as soon as I came through the door.”

I turned around. Bleeding from both legs and wincing in agony, Jordan looked back at me. Her eyes were filled with regret.

So were mine—for trusting her.

Without a second thought, I shot her once, in the head.

I handed Vincent the pistol. “There,” I said with a shrug of an aching shoulder. “I know killing women was a matter of contention for you.”