Harrison Foster stood in the doorway-and he had a gun.

I froze.

“Get down,” Jeff yelled.

I fell to my hands and knees, but I was on the side of the car without protection. I crawled around to the back of the car, fully expecting a bullet to flatten me.

Then I heard the shot, but he must have missed.

I made it around to the driver’s side and realized he hadn’t missed.

Jeff was down.

I scrambled to him and gently turned him onto his side. He was grimacing in pain, and a crimson stain was spreading on his chest. I fought the panic threatening to take me over. I needed adrenaline, not fear, to be in charge here.

“Kravitz,” I shouted. “Call nine-one-one!”

Then I put my mouth to Jeff’s ear. “Is it bad?”

“I-I don’t think I can get up.” His words were halting, like he didn’t have enough air to speak.

Foster shouted, “Abby, look who I’ve got.”

I pried Jeff’s gun from his fingers and stood up just enough to see through the driver’s-side window. Foster held Kate in front of him. He had had a far better shot at me a few seconds ago and hadn’t taken it. He wanted his money, and probably figured out he needed my help with the account.

I’d trade myself for Kate in a minute if not for Jeff. Would he bleed to death while I got this bastard what he wanted?

My heart, already beating crazily, felt like it might come out of my chest. What did I do? Stall for time?

Foster’s arm was around Kate’s chest near her throat. Her mouth was duct-taped, and so were her hands in front of her. He held his gun to her head.

I glanced right, hoping to see Kravitz with a phone to his ear. But I couldn’t find him. Stu Crowell must have ducked for cover, too.

Foster said, “Join us, Abby. Your sister seems to have decided we need your help with something.”

Since we’d been taken by surprise, help was at the very least minutes away. But I had to call 911 now. Jeff might not have minutes.

I was about to reach in my pocket for my phone, but then I saw Crowell with his camera behind the wide trunk of the live oak in Aunt Caroline’s front yard. Then Crowell stepped out to tape the horror unfolding.

His sudden appearance distracted Foster, and his gun swung away from Kate’s head toward the camera.

This was my chance. I stood, my hands amazingly steady when I raised Jeff’s Glock with both hands. I aimed for Foster’s left shoulder and hit the mark, just as I’d hit so many bull’s-eyes with Daddy admiring every shot. Foster crumpled to the ground without firing a round.

He might still be able to use his weapon-but Kate took care of that problem by kicking the gun away. Then she put her foot on Foster’s throat.

I shouted, “Crowell, help us, for God’s sake.”

He was no more than fifty feet away and yet was willing to let Jeff bleed out so he could capture the drama on tape.

Jeff’s eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. I pressed a hand against his chest wound and fumbled for the phone clipped to his belt. I flipped it open and started to press the number pad with my bloody thumb-God, there was so much blood-when I felt someone grip my shoulder.

I looked up and saw the investigative reporter who worked for God knew who-Mary Parsons.

“The police are coming,” she said. “Should be here any minute. And they’re sending an ambulance.”

“Thank you. Thank God.” I rested my face against Jeff’s cool cheek. My sister needed me, but I couldn’t leave him. I had to keep him warm, keep my hand tight against the hole where his life was leaking out. “My sister? Can you see her?”

Parsons, who was crouched near us, raised her head and looked through the driver’s-side window. “The man is still lying there on the grass. Your sister has her foot on his neck. And that asshole is still taping every second of this.”

The police came then. But not with sirens blaring. The SWAT team was upon us so quietly I nearly cried out in surprise.

After they assessed the scene, one of them radioed for patrol and homicide. But when I told them one of their own was down, the officer got back on the radio and said, “Where’s the fucking medics?”

The ambulance must have already been coming down the street, because it seemed like only seconds later when the paramedics pried me away from Jeff and began their work.

Then that helpless, hopeless feeling, the same one I’d had when I knew my sister was in danger, hammered down on me again.

I think I heard someone say, “Ma’am, are you all right? Have you been injured?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t speak.

27

There had been no hospital vigil when my daddy died. His heart attack had been brutally quick, with no chance for good-byes. Maybe that’s better, I thought, as I sat and waited for word on Jeff.

I wasn’t alone. In fact, so many other officers had come to wait, come to give their blood for their brother, that the hospital had put us all in a conference room; either that or we would have taken over the regular waiting area.

After Kate had given her statement to police, she insisted on staying with me. I held her cold hand tightly in my own as we sat in padded chairs around the long table, cold cups of coffee in front of us. Kate should be in the ER getting checked out, just like Aunt Caroline was. They’d both been bound, perhaps even hurt by Foster. But Kate had refused to be anywhere but here. We’d been told we’d get word on Aunt Caroline as soon as she was evaluated, but the Hermann Hospital ER we’d all been brought to was very crowded.

DeShay was pacing like a parrot on a perch, and White was with Harrison Foster at Ben Taub Hospital, where they’d taken him. Foster’s wound turned out to be minor. He was doing fine. Just fine. Had my decision not to shoot to kill been correct? Or would this be a regret I’d carry with me to my grave? It all depended on one thing-the one thing I did not know yet: whether Jeff would live or die.

“Why is this taking so long?” I said.

I’d been asking this question probably every ten minutes since they’d taken Jeff into surgery-like some terrible aberration of the “are we there yet?” children’s chant.

Kate squeezed my hand, and DeShay grazed his fingers across my shoulders on one of his passes. Earlier, Kate had told me what little she knew of Foster’s motive-something to do with his wife’s mental state after their baby was born fifteen years ago. But she’d been too terrified to listen carefully to his ramblings-and he had rambled, mostly about how it was over, how he’d be leaving behind plenty of money for his family, and that was why Kate had to transfer the funds to support his new life in someplace far, far away. A definite fairy tale, was all I could think.

“There may be more you don’t remember,” I said.

“Probably,” she answered. “Maybe he talked so much because we’d… shared a lot beforehand.” She’d gone silent then, lost in her own guilt. I wanted to tell her she had nothing to feel guilty about, but knowing her, she wouldn’t have agreed.

Someone knocked on the door, and everyone not already on their feet stood silently in one motion-like we’d all gotten orders from our drill sergeant.

A volunteer opened the door, not the doctor we were awaiting. “There’s someone out here named Emma Lopez,” the woman said. “She says she’s not the press, that-”

“Let her in, please,” I said.

All the other men and women waiting with Kate and me had no interest in this visitor. They returned to pacing or drinking coffee or resting their heads on the table.

Emma ran into the room and embraced me, pulling Kate into the hug as well. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “This is all my fault.”

I withdrew and held her by the upper arms-too roughly, I suppose. “Don’t you ever say that. Don’t you ever blame yourself for wanting the truth.”