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She pulled into their three-car garage and stopped beside Matthew’s Lincoln Navigator. He’d bought it on the day he’d landed his job. After all, he had to have an impressive car, working for the Cromwell Law Firm and Vanessa Cromwell. She was one of the most prestigious lawyers in the state. On the other side of his car rested their RZR that they loved driving around their property.
Dania gathered the groceries and pastry sack and hurried to the door, expecting to be met by the scent of brewing coffee, but not today. Odd. Matthew always had it ready when she returned home from work. Morning was their golden time, when they could eat on the deck, looking over their land, and catch up with each other.
He must still be on his run.
She kicked off her shoes in the mud room and set the groceries on the kitchen counter. Deciding to change out of her nursing scrubs, she hurried to their bedroom. As she walked in, she found the bed made, which surprised her. Matthew never made the bed. Had he stayed up all night? Could he still be in his study?
Racing out, she passed through the dining room on her way to his office when she heard what could have been a file drawer closing.
Yep, that’s where he is.“Babe, I’ve got terrific news,” she yelled. The french doors to his office stood open. “You’re going to be so happy.”
Sprinting to the doorway, she collided with a large man, solid as granite, who smelled of cigarette smoke. Matthew never had clients come to their home. She glanced up to see the intruder’s face, but only glaring eyes stared at her through the holes of a black ski mask.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she screamed. Dodging behind him, she saw that the gun case door stood open.
She stopped short as her gaze fell on Matthew lying facedown on the floor. A bullet wound in his back. Fear’s frigid fingers wrapped around her, squeezing until she could hardly breathe. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Matthew?”
Before she could go to him, strong, bear-like arms seized her around her waist. She kicked and screamed, hitting the intruder with all her strength. He grunted, then threw her to the hardwood floor.
Air gushed from her lungs on impact. She fought for breath, clutching her throat and gasping. Still fighting for air, she rolled onto her knees and rose up in time to see the man grab a file from the desk. Even though he wore rubber gloves, she could tell two of his fingers were missing on his right hand: his ring finger and pinkie.
He raced from the room, and she heard the front door open and slam shut.
She had to get to Matthew. Forcing air in and out of her lungs, she made her way to her husband’s side. Her SIG Sauer lay next to him.
She sank to her knees, moved the weapon away, and eased him onto his back. A huge exit wound had ripped open his chest very near his heart. She knew what that meant and that she needed to get help. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she whispered, “Oh, Matthew.”
She grabbed the landline phone off the desk. With trembling fingers, she punched 911 as she stroked Matthew’s forehead. “Come on, honey. Fight!” She felt his neck for a pulse but couldn’t find one. “You’re going to be a daddy.” She pushed open his eyelids. His pupils were slightly dilated but not fixed.
“Come on, honey, you can do this. You can take a breath.” With trembling fingers, she checked his airway. No obstructions.
“What’s your emergency?” The operator on the phone drew her attention.
She gulped. “This is Dania Black. My husband’s been shot. Send an ambulance to Second West, One Hundred Thirty-Second South.” She dropped the phone, knowing the operator would want to keep her talking, but she couldn’t stay on the line and help Matthew at the same time.
Tilting his head back, she went into CPR mode, trying her best to treat him as she would any critical patient in her care. But he wasn’tanypatient.
He was Matthew.
Her husband.
Her sweetheart.
The father of their unborn child.
Two breaths into his lungs and then she placed one hand over the other and did heart compressions, mindful of the wound. “Matthew! Hang on!”
More breaths. More compressions. “You’ve got to fight. Fight for our baby!”
More breaths. Then compressions. “It will be a boy. You’ve always wanted a son. Come on! Open your eyes!”
Breaths. Compressions. As she pumped, she stared at his face, the face she knew so well: his scar under his chin where’d he’d had stitches as a child, his right brow that would quirk up when he’d question her, and the freckle by his ear, where she loved to nuzzle him.
No color flushed his cheeks. His pallor remained pale, void of life. His jade-colored eyes remained closed.
He. Could. Not. Die.
She wouldn’t let him. She feverishly worked and worked. The sound of sirens growing closer fed her with courage. “Help is here, Matthew. You’ll be all right.”
