Chapter 30 · Shattered Foyer

The glass detonated like a twelve-gauge, and I was already moving.

Barefoot. Cold floorboards. One hand clamped over my ribs where the fresh stitches pulled hard, like a barbed hook catching skin. Down the hall. The crash came from below. And Willa was three flights up, behind a security gate any man with a pry bar could pop in ninety seconds.

Rain blew sideways through the high arched window. The foyer chandelier threw raw gold light over wet marble, and every jagged shard on the floor threw it right back.

Owen stood at the bottom of the grand stairs. Barefoot. Black T-shirt. A Glock held low against his right thigh like it grew there.

"Landing," he snapped. "Now, Ruth."

"Nobody's out there yet."

"Ruth."

"You've got one pair of hands tonight. Don't waste them playing hero with me." I hit the bottom four steps without slowing down. My left side tore with a sharp, sickening pull. Warm wetness seeped instantly into the gauze taped over my ribs. I ignored it.

He caught my wrist at the carved newel post. Not rough.