“My coffee tastes wrong,” I said. “I think the cream’s bad.”

A soft exhale of relief. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I misheard. I’ll get Maria to pour you a fresh cup. Now, about this friend of Peter’s, Josh Gray. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.” He paused, as if considering. “Gabriel told you this, didn’t he? About Gray and the phone records.”

Before I could answer, the phone rang. He glanced down at the call display. Consternation crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I do need to take this.”

He rose to carry the cordless phone elsewhere so he could speak privately. I rose, too, leaning over the desk to see who was calling.

E. Chandler showed on the base unit call display.

Evans looked startled by my rudeness.

The phone had stopped ringing. He set it back in the base. “I suppose Maria or my wife got it. They’ll take a message.” He cleared his throat and looked about, as if he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. After a long pause, he lowered himself into his chair. “As we were saying . . .”

The door opened. Evans jumped. Then he let out a breath as the housekeeper walked in. She carried a plate of cookies.

“Thank you, Maria,” Evans said. “That’s very thoughtful. Before you go, there seems to be a problem with Ms. Jones’s coffee. Could you please—?”

Maria dropped the tray. As it clattered to the desk, I noticed something gripped in her hand. My brain didn’t have time to fully process the image before I heard the shot.

Evans’s face exploded in a shower of blood. As his chair toppled backward, Maria put two more bullets into him.

There was a moment where I didn’t react. Couldn’t react. I just stood there, frozen in shock.

Evans’s housekeeper just shot . . . No, that wasn’t . . . Couldn’t be . . .

But it was. It took only a split-second for the shock to crumble. For me to realize, without a doubt, what had just happened. That Evans’s middle-aged housekeeper had shot him. That he was dead. That she was still holding the gun. That I’d witnessed a murder.

I grabbed my jacket from the chair, fumbling to pull out my gun—

Maria pivoted toward me, her face and blouse spattered with blood, her face empty. Again there was a second where my brain just seized up. Her expression was so terrifyingly blank that I couldn’t quite comprehend it. Then I saw the gun rise.

I hit the floor as she fired. I’d lost my grip on my jacket, and it lay a few feet away.

I rolled just as Maria fired again. Then I sprang for her legs and knocked them out from under her. The gun went off. Probably dumb luck that the bullet didn’t hit me. And that my assailant was double my age and twice my weight. She fell like a rock.

The gun flew from her hand. It sailed across the room. I started to go after it, then stopped.

That’s the gun that killed Evans.

I couldn’t touch it.

I kicked the gun under the desk and went for my own, still in my jacket. Maria scrambled after her gun. I pulled out mine and trained it on her.

“Stop,” I said.

It was as if she didn’t hear me. She just dropped to her hands and knees, and reached under the desk.

I stepped closer. “I said stop!”

Not even a flicker of expression crossed her face. There was a gun pointed right at her, an arm’s length away, and she just calmly retrieved her weapon. Then she pushed to her feet.

“Stop,” I said. “I swear if you lift that gun—”

She swung it up, right at me and—

I shot her. Point blank. In the chest.

She went down. I stood there, gulping breath.

I told you to stop. Why the hell didn’t you stop?

I forced myself to close that gap between us. I was sure she was dead, but when I stepped around her, I saw her face, eyes open, lips working, looking confused, as if wondering how she got on the floor.

My hands tightened on my gun, ready to fire again if she reached for hers. She didn’t. It was right beside her, and she just lay there, mouth opening and closing.

Was she dying?

I swallowed.

Should I help her?

I looked at Evans’s body, then back at Maria.

Why?

How?

It made no sense, but I couldn’t stop to think about that. Couldn’t stop to help her, either. I needed to get out of there.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

I kicked Maria’s gun out the door while checking back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn’t getting up.

“Olivia.”

Gabriel came around the corner, Chandler’s big .45 in hand. I gave Maria’s pistol another kick and he saw it. He bent to scoop it up.

“Don’t!” I said. “It was used on Evans. I don’t want to leave it where—”

He lifted it by the barrel.

“Or I could have done that.”

He caught my arm and tugged me into the living room as he whispered, “Shhh. The wife and housekeeper are still here.”

“We don’t need to worry about the housekeeper. I . . .” I glanced down at the gun in my hands and swallowed. “I shot her. I think she’s dead. Or dying.”

He shot me a look. Quizzical. Confused.

“Okay . . .” he said slowly. He straightened. “We’ll handle this. We’ll say that Evans shot himself, and she walked in—”

“No, she shot Evans.”

Full-blown “Huh?” on his face now, and I realized that whatever he’d seen from his post, it wasn’t enough to understand what had happened. That’s why he’d been bewildered when I said I’d shot the housekeeper. He didn’t know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.

Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn’t seem to be running. Just heading this way.

Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.

He started shoving me toward the sofa. “Get behind it. I’ll handle this.”

“Don’t hurt—”

I barely got the words out before his frown killed the rest in my throat. Whatever he meant by “handling it,” his plan did not involve hurting Evans’s innocent wife. I should have known that.

The footsteps continued. He pushed me toward the sofa. I grabbed his wrist and hauled him along behind me.