Stepbrother Thief(120)

After a while, the footsteps fade away, but the drawer stays out. At first I'm worried that I've been spotted, that the false drawer at the end is going to be wrenched open and I'll be dragged out screaming, but the steps head into the hallway and towards Solène's bedroom. Instead of feeling relieved, a new wave of adrenaline spikes through me, crashing against my anxiety and masking my fear for the time being.

I reach my left hand out, searching for the weapons I tossed in here and close my fingers around the revolver, dragging it towards me before I search for the knife. Crap! I slice my fingers on the sharp blade and hold back a hiss of pain, sliding the knife forward with several silent curses. Using the small splash of light from the open drawer, I check my fingertips and find a nice little slice along my middle and ring fingers. Oh well. Better to have the blade than not.

Taking my weapons with me, I scoot back and ease open the false drawer, listening as I go to the receding footsteps of one of the two people that came up the stairs. When the other follows from the direction of my room a few moments later, I climb out from under the bed, sweeping my hair over one shoulder as I pause and look around the room, trying to find something to put the knife into. I know Gill has loads of holsters and sheaths and straps and whatever-the-fucks around here somewhere.

I don't have the luxury of searching around for long, so I end up grabbing a hoodie off the end of Gill's bed and slipping it over my dress. The knife goes in the front pocket—not the safest place in the world, I know, but where else am I going to put it? It's in that moment that I start wishing I'd paid more attention to Gill's random lessons, that I'd taken more of an interest and asked important questions. Christ, I spent more time alternating between loving and hating him, mulling over our past.

I hope we're still going to have a future after this.

I take another breath and sweep my free hand over my hair, the revolver clutched in the opposite. Double-action means I don't have to pull the hammer back, right? Another deep breath. At least I ended up with the revolver and not the semiautomatic; there's a lot more that can go wrong with those. Revolver's about as simple as it gets, that much I do remember.

Right hand around the grip, finger on the outside of the trigger guard. I force myself to breathe slowly as I adjust my hold on the gun, curling my left hand around my right, pressing my thumbs together. It's been a hell of a long time since Cliff took Gill and me to the shooting range, but I'll be damned if I let my lack of preparation screw this family over. Damn it, Gill, why didn't you teach me? But I know why. Gill doesn't want me involved in any of this and maybe, just maybe, Gilleon Marchal is capable of mistakes, capable of being human—just like the rest of us.

I shoulder the door to the bedroom open, unwilling to relax my grip on the gun. If I need to fire off a round, my only advantage is surprise. I have to take the first shot because it'll be all I'll get.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I move towards the main staircase and listen carefully. If I had to hazard a guess, the voices are coming from the direction of the kitchen, so the back stairs are out of the question. At the same time, do I take a chance at the front? What if there's someone guarding the door? God. My mind is spinning with movie references, with images of mob bosses with canes and thick glasses surrounded by goons in dark suits. For all I know, the people here are in Max's employ, just like Gill. If I run around shooting people, and I find out they were innocent—well, at least that they were on our side—then I'll never live it down. Hell, that might even be the thing that ultimately fucks everything up.

Shit.

I pause at the top of the steps, conflicted and confused. This isn't my thing. I like espresso and warm baguette, shopping in Le Marais, designer shoes. I don't do heists or guns or knives.

A small drop of blood drips down the front of my hand and falls to the floor in front of my bare feet.

My knees go weak.

My hands start to shake.

And then I hear the first shot.





It's like a crack of thunder, ricocheting up the staircase and straight into my brain—nothing at all like the nearly silent click of Gill's gun at the hotel. My head screams in protest and my ears start to ring, loosening my grip on the revolver.

What the fuck am I doing? I know why Gill didn't teach me to shoot. Because I can't do it. This isn't me. It isn't. I can't.

I take a step back, away from the stairs when another shot goes off, scrambling my brain and making me grit my teeth. Gilleon. Gilleon is down there somewhere, and I'm standing here shaking like I'm helpless.

But I'm far from it, aren't I? I survived for ten years without Gill, birthed his kid, robbed a jewelry store. Me.

I can do this.