The gardener pulled back for a second swing. I lifted my gun. I heard the shot. Saw the gardener crumple, and for a second I was certain I’d pulled the trigger . . . until a second bullet grazed my shoulder and I stumbled back. Gabriel swung around, gun raised, in time to see Chandler’s bodyguard—Anderson—dive to the side, out of sight.

Gabriel started for the door. I caught the back of his jacket as pain ripped through my arm. Gabriel stopped. We couldn’t see Anderson, but we knew he was there, and any second now, his gun could swing around the doorway and fire.

Gabriel hustled me along the hall. At the first door, I reached for the handle. Gabriel struck me in the back and I stumbled as a gun fired. I turned to see Mrs. Evans. Gabriel was falling, twisting, his injured leg buckling, blood blossoming. He hit the floor. I fired. I reacted too fast, no time to aim, probably for the best, the bullet hitting Mrs. Evans in the hip, just enough to send her to the floor.

I started to drop beside Gabriel, but he was already rising, pushing me toward that door. I yanked it open, took a step into darkness, and almost tumbled down a flight of stairs. The basement. I started to back out, but Gabriel was at my shoulder, prodding me, whispering, “Go!” between clenched teeth.

I went. He followed.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

I felt my way down the stairs, shoulder blazing. By the time I made it to the bottom, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I turned to see Gabriel still near the top, leaning on the rail, slowly descending, hand pressed to his thigh, grimacing with every move.

I started back for him, but he waved me off, emphatically gesturing for me to get into the next room. I stayed where I was but did look around, taking in our surroundings. A basement. Unfinished. Bare walls. Concrete floor.

Light filtered in through distant windows. I jogged to the nearest lit doorway and peered through. It was a laundry room with one window, near the ceiling. I checked the other two rooms—both storage, similar windows.

“Hide,” Gabriel said as he hobbled over. “Before—”

I raced back to the stairs. He let out an oath and tried to grab me, but I’d already passed. I wiped blood drops off the steps. Then I hurried back to Gabriel and prodded him into the laundry room. I closed the door most of the way—all the way would seem a clear sign we were in there.

I tried to nudge Gabriel to sit on a pile of sheets, but he caught me instead to get a look at my shoulder. Blood had seeped through my shirt and it hurt like hell, but there wasn’t a bullet hole, just a shredded line of blood-soaked fabric.

“It’s a graze,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”

I tried to move away, but he caught me again, by the chin this time, lifting my face up to his and studying me. I knocked his hand aside.

“I’m not going into shock, Gabriel.”

I looked at him, his hand on the washing machine, his weight all on his right leg. His left one was bleeding at the thigh, where there was a bullet hole, and at the calf, where the spade had sliced clean through his trousers.

“You need—” I began.

“Later. Now, the window. You have to—” He looked at the dryer. “Perfect.”

“I know. I checked the options. Can you get up on that?”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll help you if you can’t, but you’re going first. You’re hurt worse than me.”

“I’m not going—”

“Yes, you are. Now move before—”

“Olivia. Stop. I won’t fit through that window.”

I looked up at it, my heart pounding as I realized he was right. I would barely get through.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, plan B.” I fumbled my cell phone from my pocket. “Call for help.”

His hand shot out to stop me.

I moved back out of his reach. “I’m not going to be the idiot who lets you bleed out rather than phone 911. It’ll be fine. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

I put a little too much emphasis on “you” and he said, “Neither have you. It was self-defense. Now, get your ass outside. Then call 911.”

I dialed my phone.

“Olivia . . .”

I backed up and placed the call, keeping my voice low, in case Chandler’s bodyguard picked that moment to open the basement door.

When I hung up, Gabriel said, “Now you’re going out that—”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Don’t be stupid. I have a gun.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .45.

“Which will knock you on your ass if you try firing with a bad leg. Sit down before you fall.”

“I’m—”

“Sit down.”

I walked to the door and peered out. If I strained, I could hear footsteps above. Anderson would search the other rooms first. Then he’d come down here.

When I returned, Gabriel was still standing, leaning against the washing machine. Stubborn bastard.

“So you’re staying with me?” he said.

“Yep.”

“You may not want to do that.”

“Too bad.”

“I wouldn’t stay for you.”

“Probably not.”

His mouth opened, as if he’d been prepared for me to disagree. He paused and then said, “I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re my partner. I watch your back.”

He paused. Then he cleared his throat. “What if I’ve done something that I’m quite certain would make you change your mind about that?”

“About what?”

“Whether we are, indeed, partners. Whether you should stay to watch my back.”

I checked out the door again. “If you mean about your mother, I already know.”

Silence. I was still peering out the door, listening. After a moment, I backed in and closed it a little more.

“Evans told me,” I said, not turning. “He called me here for that. He’d done a background check when you first tried to interview him. An extensive one.”

More silence. When I turned, his face was taut, blank.

“You said something about my mother,” he said finally. “He told you that she left, I presume?”

“And the rest.”

“The rest?”

I backed into the room, flexed my arm, shoulder still aching.