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“This needs to stop,” Maire heard Camille whisper.
Fern leaned forward in her seat, her eyes pinned to Ned. “Are you sure? Is that your final answer?”
The room went quiet. The only sound was the desperate quickening of breath.
“What are you doing?” Samuel asked, finally breaking the silence and getting to his feet. “This isn’t funny.”
Samuel was right. Camille was right. This had gone too far. “Fern, stop it, please,” Maire begged.
Fern ignored them all. “Ned? Speak or Shoot? The choice is yours.”
Ned lifted his chin, defiance flashing in his eyes, as he calmly reached for the revolver and pointed it at Fern. Everyone gasped.
“That’s not funny,” Maire said. “Put it down.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded, right, Fern?” Ned asked. “It’s just a game.”
Fern crossed her arms over her chest. “Speak or Shoot?” she asked again. A dare.
“I choose Shoot,” Ned said, getting to his feet and pressing the barrel to his temple. “Maybe here,” he said, with a twisted smile. “Or how about here?” He slid the gun down the side of his face and beneath his chin.
“Stop!” Maire cried. “Just stop!”
“But if I had my way,” he said, pointing it once again toward Fern, “I’d choose here.” He pulled the trigger and Maire expected the soft click of an empty chamber. Instead, the gun exploded, and a bullet ripped past her ear and a hailstorm of glass rained down. The gun cracked again and again. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Maire dropped to the floor, arms covering her head, ears ringing. She felt the vibration of bodies landing next to her and warm liquid seeping into the fabric of her clothes.
Had she been shot? She couldn’t tell. Every nerve ending was on fire and her heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst from her chest. Maire dared to open her eyes and found herself lying in a puddle of red. She felt the scream slide raggedly from her throat but couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears.
She turned her head to find Samuel lying next to her on the cold tile floor, his eyes closed, blood oozing from a gash at his temple. She reached out to touch his face. It was here. The day had come. They were finally going to pay for what they had done, just like she knew they would one day.
THIRTY-TWO
THE ASSISTANT
Fern cowered on the floor, barely registering the broken glass, the shattered wine bottles, the smell of gunpowder in the air. The gun was loaded. How was the gun loaded? She had checked it herself just before the competition began four days ago.
By the terror on Ned’s face, he was just as shocked as she was. His mouth was moving frantically, but the gunshot blasts had left her ears ringing. She couldn’t decipher what he was saying. Ned threw the revolver to the floor and fell to his knees.
Fern was vaguely aware of the others also dropping to the floor. Had they been shot? Why couldn’t she move? Her limbs were numb, heavy. Had a bullet hit her spine? She rubbed her legs, willing the feeling to return in them. No bullet wounds.
Ned was still on his knees, his face contorted in anguish. Fern didn’t care. She hated him, hated him for what he had done to her, hated the scars that he left behind.
She needed to see if a bullet had struck one of the others and call for an ambulance. But she couldn’t seem to stand up and she was so cold, she couldn’t stop shivering. She must be in shock.
Fern watched as Camille pushed herself up from the floor and crawled over to Maire and Samuel, helping them both sit up, her hands running over their bodies as she checked for bullet wounds. Camille pressed a white linen napkin to a cut at Samuel’s temple. They were sitting in a puddle of red wine that at first glance Fern thought was blood. She should go get help, but she couldn’t move.
Who loaded the gun? Cat? One of the dozens of crew members and contractors who had been in and out of the estate? But why? It made no sense.
“Fern,” came a distorted voice. “Fern.” Camille’s face floated into her line of vision. “Are you okay? Are you hit?”
“I’m fine,” Fern said, the tingling feeling leaching from her limbs. “Is Samuel okay?”
“No one was shot. But you’re bleeding.” Camille nodded toward Fern’s arms. Fern looked down to find her arms covered in small cuts. The broken glass. She must have landed on it when she dived for cover. Small bits were embedded beneath her skin. She pulled a jagged fragment from her palm and tossed it aside. She would need tweezers to get the rest out.
“What the fuck was that?” Ned snarled. “Why the fuck would you give us a loaded gun?”
Fern jumped at the venom in his voice. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t know,” Fern said. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Yeah, right,” Ned said, getting to his feet and shoving a chair aside so that it clattered against a wall. Fern shifted, keeping the table between them. “I could have killed someone!”
