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But he turned, eyes accusing, hurt even, making me aware that even monsters could feel pain, could mourn loss.
But then his gaze when to the gun I had discarded, and whatever shock that had overtaken my system slipped away, leaving me with nothing but the harsh, cold reality.
He was going to kill me.
Michael was going to kill me.
I scrambled backward, crab-walking away until I was around the desk, throwing myself onto all fours before pushing myself up and running.
My pulse was a wild thing, frantic and unrelenting, panic a collar around my throat choking tighter with each passing second as I rammed wildly into the table in the hall, the pain a sharp stab to my hip as I made a dash for the front door.
My hand was on the knob when there was a whiz past my ear then a thunk to the wood right beside my head.
I didn't need to look at the hole burrowed there to know it was a bullet.
That he was only an inch off his target.
My head.
Panic making my brain skittish and unfocused, I ducked, turned, and dashed for the steps, clamoring up and out of range of the gun as my brother came running up the hallway.
By the time he was on the first step, I was around the corner in the hall.
I didn't think.
I didn't consider the best option.
I made a dash for my bedroom, slamming and locking the door, then using every bit of concentrated strength in my adrenaline-fueled body to shoulder my dresser in front of it before running into my bathroom, locking the door, and cowering in my shower, trying to think, trying to calm myself down even as I heard the gun fire off a few more shots before my brother's body started slamming against the door, calling out my name in a rabid, demonic way, nothing but pure hatred to be found within it.
I don't know how long I sat there cowering in my shower, my body shaking, my mind racing with all the ways I had screwed up my life by letting myself be pushed around, by staying when I should have left, by not forcing Helga to go with me.
Oh, God.
Helga.
My heart, reinforced with the concrete I had built around it, cracked, letting the pain leak out, overtaking my stomach, chest, my throat, until it felt like I was choking on it, until I was bent over retching, though nothing came out because there was nothing in my system.
I wasn't sure how long it went on, when my brother's slamming became a different kind of knocking, but it felt like ages before my brain registered the difference, letting the fear recede enough for me to hear properly again.
"This is Detective Collings, Miss Eames. Please open the door."
Collings.
Detective Collings.
That name alone had me carefully climbing out of the tub on shaking legs.
Collings.
That was a name that conjured up ideas of goodness, of fairness.
And I could use all the good and fair that I could get.
I'd just killed a man.
"Com... coming," I tried again after clearing my throat, hearing the thickness in my words as I struggled to move the dresser, finding that once the adrenaline had drained, my arms felt as useless as a baby's. After four tries, it finally moved, sliding back into place, allowing me to unlock the door with clumsy hands.
I had barely pulled it open when Detective Collings rose a hand, placing his pointer finger in front of his mouth, demanding silence from me.
Confused, I moved back a step as he invited himself in, closing the door halfway.
He looked like Connor.
Wide shoulders, a solid jaw, keen but kind eyes. Except this Collings had a bit of a bushy mustache that made my lips want to curve up, but I couldn't seem to find the muscle control to make that happen.
"Helen," he breathed out my name. Almost like a sigh. "I have heard a lot of things about you, Helen. My son thinks highly of you. Can you have a seat?" he asked, waving toward my bed as he grabbed the chair from in front of my vanity, dragging it across the floor to sit on just a foot or so from my legs. My eyes must have skittered to the door, looking for shadows, hands with guns. "We have your brother in custody," he said, picking up on my concern.
"Custody?" I repeated, my voice sounding odd to my ears.
"For the double homicide," he said, the words breaking through the fog of my brain.
Double homicide.
"That's no..."
"The way we figure it," he cut me off, voice raised, like he was purposely trying to drown me out, like he didn't want me to contradict him with the, well, truth. "Your brother, who is well known to be a bit of a lunatic, snapped, killing the housekeeper and your father before chasing you up into your room. He shot at your door a few times before we got here," he added, mounting the evidence.
