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They were on the right road now, approaching the house, Connor's hands tight on the wheel. Cami was peering anxiously through the windshield, but she was dreading what might be waiting when they arrived.
"Confirming that backup is on the way," Connor had requested it after Maisie had cut his call. Now, Cami felt relieved that the cops in the police department were on their way. "We’re sending two cars to 10 Mayberry Drive, as well as paramedics."
And then, they were there, pulling up outside in a crunch of gravel. The home’s front door was open, Cami saw, with a catch of her breath.
They flung open the car doors.
And then, from inside the house, Cami heard a scream of terror that made her heart clench. There were shouts and crashes coming from inside. Connor grabbed his gun.
"Just stay behind me. Stay behind me until we've got a handle on the situation," he said.
Cami had no option but to stay behind, with the speed that Connor sprinted up to the door. He was hurtling straight into danger. She had no doubt about that. The killer was here, cornered and desperate. It might already be too late.
But, as he reached the hallway, Connor skidded to a stop.
The woman, Maisie Abson, was lying on the ground. She looked terrified and was panting for breath. Her eyes were wide, and blood was flowing freely from a wound in her chest, pooling on the floor.
In a moment, Connor was by her side, kneeling down, his voice urgent.
"Ma'am, can you hear me? Are you able to breathe?" He grasped her wrist, feeling for a pulse, and his face drew hard with worry.
Cami heard incoherent, gasping responses, and felt panic choke her. She didn't think that Maisie was able to breathe.
But Maisie was speaking again, in soft, gasping tones.
"Please, help."
"Ma'am, don't talk!" Cami could see how the effort was affecting her. Her face was sheet white. But she was determined to say what she needed to.
"This killer."
"What about him?" Connor leaned forward.
"He . . . is upstairs. And he . . . he took . . . my husband."
Cami gave Connor an agonized glance.
"Upstairs," she mouthed the words. "He has a knife, a knife."
Connor took off his jacket and pressed it firmly over the wound.
“Keep it there,” he told Cami. “Just keep applying pressure. I’m heading up.”
Feeling nerves wrench at her stomach, Cami applied pressure to the wound, feeling the rise and fall of Maisie’s chest as she labored for breath. But her eyes were on the staircase.
Connor rushed up, gun in hand.
Then Cami’s heart accelerated even faster as she heard a fresh commotion upstairs. Furious shouting. It sounded like there was a different fight in progress. She tensed, waiting for the sound of a gunshot. Then, a second later, she heard a smashing noise and, as if he’d been violently pushed, Connor tumbled downstairs, staggering back. He grabbed for the stair rail, missed, and somersaulted down. Cami screeched in horror. The sound of his head hitting the floor was the most awful noise she’d ever heard.
“Connor!” Cami shouted.
She didn’t think that he was dead. She could see his chest moving. But he was stunned.
And that meant, without a doubt, Maisie’s husband would die, unless Cami could do something. She had no idea what. This situation had turned disastrous.
“Can you push this jacket down?” she asked Maisie, guiding the woman’s hand to her own chest. She didn’t know what else to do. Now, there was only her.
“I can. Just please, help him,” she whispered, grasping onto the jacket, and pushing it down on her own chest with a surprising strength.
