“We’ll get you a better attorney, then.” He tried to keep her talking while he edged ever closer. It was hard to do it by stealth when he was on crutches, but he did his best. “We’ll arrest your ex on tax evasion. We’ll figure it out. Put down the gun.”
“It will be too late. I’ll go to jail. I don’t want to go to jail.” Her hand shook a little more. “I hate the jail. It stinks in there and the ladies are mean.”
“Look, you need to give me the gun now. You don’t want this, Jackie, I promise. Jeremy will get out of rehab soon and you need to be here for him.”
She shook her head. Were her movements slowing down? Could he risk lunging at her? With her finger wedged on the trigger, he wasn’t sure.
“He’s so mad at me,” she said, her words slurred and sorrowful. “So mad. He won’t even talk to me, because I made him go to rehab. I made him. If he didn’t, I told him I would have you put him in jail.”
Where was Cade? Marshall judged approximately two minutes had passed since he called 911 and they should be screaming up within five or six, as long as the dispatcher overheard the call he’d left connected.
“I’m not mad at you. Does that make you feel better? I understand why you ran me down. You were only trying to help your son. Maybe I would have done the same thing.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re so nice. The nicest boss I ever had. I hurt you and I feel so bad.”
Tears gushed out and she reached to wipe her nose again with the hand holding the weapon before placing it back under her chin.
He could hear noise on the front step and had to hope it was backup. On the other hand, there was always the chance that in her befuddled state, she might instinctively fire at anybody who walked through the door.
“Jackie,” he said, his voice stern and loud. “I need you to give me your weapon. Do you hear me? That’s an order.”
He hoped his firmness would break through the fog of substances clouding her judgment—and would also convey again to dispatch that a weapon was involved.
He thought he had won when she hesitated, but she finally only shook her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry I bothered you. I shouldn’t have come here. I just wanted you to know I never wanted to hurt you and I’m sorry.”
He watched the doorway out of the edge of his vision, trying to avoid looking directly so Jackie didn’t notice. When Cade and his guys came in, Marshall hoped they provided enough of a distraction for him to sweep in and disarm her.
And then he spotted someone with her back against the wall, peering into the room.
Andie.
Everything inside him turned to ice. Not Andie. No. Go, he wanted to yell at her. Get the hell out of here. But he was afraid if he said anything, Jackie might lose her tenuous hold on reality.
“Who’s that? Is someone here?” She waved the gun in the direction of the hallway.
Andie.
“I don’t think so,” he said. Panic lodged, cold and hard, in his chest and he knew he had to draw her attention back to him and do everything he could to disarm her. “Come on, Jackie. Give me the gun. You don’t want to die, right?”
She frowned at him. “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s better than jail.”
* * *
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
She couldn’t have said exactly how she knew, but the moment she walked into the house, Andie sensed it. Most likely it was a combination of things—the strange car parked at an odd angle in the driveway or the way Sadie whined from the doorway of the guest bedroom or the tense, hard voices she heard coming from the kitchen.
For an instant, she was tempted to slip back outside the way she had come, to return to her car, where she could call for help. That was the safe choice, the logical one.
But Marshall was in there.
The man she loved.
Someone had tried to kill him a little more than a week ago, then had tried to hurt him just a few days earlier at the Lights festival. What if he was in danger again?
If that were the case, what could she do about it? the rational, cautious side of her brain was quick to ask. She was an artist, a mom. Yes, Wyn had taught her six or seven Krav Maga self-defense moves. Learning a few basic maneuvers to protect herself and her children had felt wonderfully empowering at the time, but she was by no means an expert—and right now the thought of using an eye strike or an outside chop filled her with slick, greasy nausea.
She could do this. To protect him, she would do whatever was necessary. She set down her purse so she would have both hands, then suddenly remembered. She might not need to do Krav Maga. She had a Taser, for heaven’s sake.
Heart pounding, she dug through her purse, worked the latch on the child-safe bag and pulled out her Taser and the pepper spray, just in case. She shoved the pepper spray in her pocket, and with both hands on the stun gun, she inched closer to the kitchen.