Justin looks at the gun, then me. A bitter smile on his face, then he shakes his head and throws the gun to the floor.
“No one will believe it,” he says. “Like Noah said, Chief Marks already has arrest warrants out with your name on it. So the only way you’ll get that justice you so richly seek is to shoot me.”
I get to my feet, the gun steady now, aimed at Justin’s chest.
He raises his arms in surrender. “How about it, Detective? Are you gonna shoot an unarmed man? Please, please,” he says in a mocking plea, dropping to his knees, “don’t shoot me, Ms. Murphy! Don’t shoot me!”
Sirens, in the distance, but not that distant. A 911 call, no doubt, after the gunshots I fired. Once Isaac heard that the shots came from the house on 7 Ocean Drive, he’d send the whole force.
I lower the gun slightly—not so low as to give Justin any ideas, but not pointing it directly at him.
“You’re not gonna do it,” says Justin, as if disappointed. “You’re really not.” His chest rises and falls, his face locked in a grimace.
It hits me then—he wants to die. He doesn’t want to spend his life in prison. Not one member of the Dahlquist clan ever spent a day in prison. He doesn’t want to break the streak.
“My favorite was your uncle,” he says. “Heating up that poker in the fireplace and driving it through his kidney.”
I shake my head. I’m not going to let him bait me.
“Do you wanna know what he said before I did it?”
The sirens getting closer. Multiple squad cars approaching.
“He said, ‘Help me, Jenna.’ He was begging.”
I close the distance between us, the gun aimed at his head.
“He was in so much pain,” Justin says.
I rear back, then drive my foot into his ribs, kicking him as hard as I can.
He doubles over on the floor.
“Pain like that?” I say.
He lets out a noise—pain, yes, but also amusement. “That’s the spirit,” he manages. “I knew you had it in you.”
“You’re gonna rot in prison, Justin,” I say. “You don’t get to go out in a blaze of glory, some dramatic suicide, like all your ancestors.”
Justin focuses on me with a hint of amusement. He gets himself to his hands and knees. “My ancestors?” he says.
“Shut up, Justin,” Noah says, suddenly stepping forward.
“My ancestors?”
Noah pulls the .38 special from his pocket and aims it at Justin. “I’m warning you, Justin, shut up.”
Justin lets out a wicked laugh. “Oh, Jenna, you think Holden is my father?”
I look at Noah. “What’s he talking about?”
“Nothing,” Noah says. “We’ll talk about it later, when everything’s calmed down.”
I step back, instinctively, separating myself from both of them. “We’ll talk about it now, Noah. And put down that gun!”
“Murphy—”
“Drop the gun, Noah! Now! Slide it over to me.”
The sound of tires squealing outside as the squad cars pull up to the mansion.
“Tell her, Noah,” says Justin, regaining an upright position, still on his knees. “Or better yet, show her those papers in your—”
Noah throws an uppercut, a violent left fist, connecting just under Justin’s chin, sending Justin off his knees and sprawling backward. Justin’s head smacks the floor, and this time he’s truly unconscious, no faking about it.
Noah with his back to me. The gun in his right hand.
“Don’t move, Noah. Don’t make a move.”
The sounds outside: officers rushing through the gate, up the walk, the front door of the mansion slamming open, footfalls downstairs, their voices, announcing their office, clearing each room on the lower level.
My mind races, thoughts bouncing every which way, trying to make it fit. Noah—Noah—it was Noah all along? Noah is Holden’s son? Everything spun upside down, everything unraveled, like a fist coming down on a jigsaw puzzle, scattering the pieces in all directions.
“Tell me, Noah,” I say, my voice shaking.
Noah slowly bends down and places the gun on the floor. Though Justin is no longer a threat, he kicks the gun across the room for good measure.
“I want to see those papers,” I say.
His back still to me, Noah removes the papers from his pocket, rolled up like an ancient scroll, and turns to face me.
“Put the gun down first,” he says.
“No chance. Toss them over.”
Noah drops his head, then starts walking over to me.
“Stop, now,” I say. “Keep your distance and toss them to me.”
He looks up at me, not breaking stride. “Jenna,” he says.
“Stop, Noah, or I’ll shoot!” My gun is aimed at his face, my feet spread.
“No,” he says.
He draws closer to me. Five steps. Three steps.
Footfalls on the stairs as officers race up to the second floor.
“I’ll shoot,” I say through my teeth.
“You’re not gonna shoot me, Jenna.”
My finger is on the trigger as Noah’s eyes lock on mine, as I feel the familiar heat of his approach.
And I can’t. I can’t pull the trigger. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything anymore.