Chapter 2 — The Gunshot Beneath the Chandeliers
The first thing Ethan did was reach for me.
His hand closed around my wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to keep me from disappearing into the darkness.
“Stay behind me.”
Emergency lights flickered red along the hallway.
Another scream rose from the ballroom.
Then came the unmistakable sound of hundreds of frightened people moving at once—chairs scraping, glass breaking, security shouting for everyone to remain calm.
Andrew vanished.
One moment he had been standing beside the dressing room door.
The next, the hallway was empty except for Ethan, me, and two security officers rushing toward the stairs.
“Lock down the building,” Ethan ordered.
One guard touched his earpiece.
“Security system is offline.”
Ethan looked toward the darkness where Andrew had been.
“He planned this.”
“We don’t know that,” I said.
But my voice betrayed me.
Because Andrew planned everything.
He planned apologies before injuries.
He planned witnesses before accusations.
He planned explanations before anyone asked questions.
Ethan guided me back into the dressing room and closed the door.
“Lock it.”
“What about the people downstairs?”
“My security team is handling the ballroom.”
“You don’t know where Andrew is.”
“That’s why you’re staying here.”
He moved toward the door again.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Ethan froze.
In the faint glow of the emergency light, his expression softened.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “I’m checking the hallway.”
He opened the door only a few inches.
A shadow moved near the service staircase.
Ethan slammed the door shut.
Almost immediately, someone struck it from the other side.
I stumbled backward.
“Ethan!”
The handle twisted violently.
Ethan braced his shoulder against the door.
“Call 911.”
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my phone.
No signal.
“Nothing.”
The pounding stopped.
For three seconds, there was silence.
Then a voice came through the door.
“Ava.”
Andrew.
My stomach turned.
“Open the door.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
Andrew tried the handle again.
“You’re making this worse.”
Ethan’s mouth hardened.
“You have a remarkable definition of worse.”
Andrew ignored him.
“Ava, someone has been shot downstairs.”
My breath caught.
“Who?”
“Open the door.”
“Who was shot?”
“The hospital chairman.”
Dr. Samuel Harris.
The man scheduled to introduce Andrew’s award.
I moved toward the door.
Ethan blocked me.
Andrew continued.
“He was holding documents about the hospital’s financial accounts. Documents someone wanted destroyed.”
“What documents?” Ethan asked.
A pause.
“Records proving millions were stolen from the children’s cardiac fund.”
Ethan looked at me.
The Carter Foundation had donated over thirty million dollars to that program.
Another blow struck the door.
This one came from farther down the hall.
Security voices shouted.
Andrew cursed and ran.
Ethan waited until the footsteps disappeared, then opened the door.
Three Carter Tower guards rushed toward us.
“Mr. Carter, the ballroom shooter escaped through the catering corridor. Dr. Harris is alive. The bullet struck his shoulder.”
“Where is Vaughn?”
“We saw him heading toward the elevators.”
“Stop him.”
The guards ran.
Ethan turned to me.
“What did Andrew mean about stolen funds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see financial documents connected to the hospital?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Ethan noticed.
I looked away.
“Ava.”
“I saw something once.”
“What?”
“Andrew left a folder open on our dining table. There were payment records from the cardiac fund to private consulting companies.”
“Which companies?”
“I didn’t recognize them.”
“Did you photograph the documents?”
I nodded.
“Where are the photographs?”
“On an old phone.”
“Where is it?”
“In a safety deposit box.”
Ethan stared at me.
“You anticipated needing evidence.”
“I anticipated needing to survive.”
His face changed.
Pain crossed it so quickly I almost missed it.
“What happened when Andrew realized you saw the folder?”
“He didn’t know at first.”
“And when he found out?”
I touched the bruise around my ribs.
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
“I should have noticed.”
“No.”
“You came into my office three weeks ago and couldn’t lift your left arm.”
“I told you I slipped in the shower.”
“You never lie well.”
“I lied well enough.”
“No,” he said. “I wanted to respect your privacy more than I wanted to question what I was seeing.”
A loud announcement came over the emergency speakers.
“Attention. This building is under security lockdown. Please remain in your current location.”
My phone suddenly vibrated.
No caller ID.
A text message appeared.
YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT QUIET, ELENA.
Below it was a photograph.
My heart stopped.
It showed a hospital bed.
A man lay unconscious beneath white sheets.
His face was partly hidden by an oxygen mask.
But I knew him.
I had seen that face every night in my nightmares.
Ethan looked over my shoulder.
“Who is that?”
I couldn’t speak.
Another message arrived.
HE ISN’T DEAD.
My knees weakened.
Ethan caught me before I hit the floor.
“Ava, who is he?”
I stared at the photograph.
“Daniel Cross.”
“The man from Boston?”
I nodded.
“The man Andrew said died?”
“Yes.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed.
“Then why is he in a hospital bed?”
“Because someone wants me to know he survived.”
A third message came.
HE REMEMBERS WHAT YOU DID.
My lungs refused to work.
Ethan took the phone and examined the messages.
“Andrew sent these.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Andrew believes Daniel is dead.”
The dressing room seemed to shrink around us.
Ethan lowered the phone.
“Start from the beginning.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have to protect anyone anymore.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
I looked toward the locked door.
Somewhere below us, police were entering the building.
A surgeon had been attacked.
Money was missing.
Andrew had disappeared.
And a man I had mourned for four years was alive.
“My name was Elena Marlowe,” I said. “I worked as a surgical research coordinator in Boston. Daniel Cross was a federal investigator.”
“Investigating what?”
“A medical charity fraud network.”
Ethan’s expression sharpened.
“Connected to Andrew?”
“I didn’t know Andrew then. At least, I didn’t think I did.”
“What happened to Daniel?”
“He asked me to help him copy files from a clinic where I worked. The night I gave him the evidence, someone followed us.”
I could still smell the rain.
Still hear tires screaming over wet pavement.
Still feel Daniel pushing me behind a parked car.
“There was an explosion,” I continued. “Daniel was inside the vehicle.”
“You saw him die?”
“I saw the car burn.”
“But you never saw a body.”
“No.”
“What happened afterward?”
“The police found evidence in my apartment linking me to stolen narcotics and financial fraud. Someone had framed me. Daniel’s agency denied he ever worked for them.”
“So you ran.”
“I changed my name. I came to New York. Two years later, I met Andrew.”
Ethan’s eyes darkened.
“You believe that was not an accident.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Three slow taps.
Then two.
Ethan’s security code.
He opened it.
A guard stood outside.
“Police have secured the ballroom. Dr. Harris is being transported.”
“And Vaughn?”
The guard hesitated.
“We found his jacket near the service elevator.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
The guard looked at me.
“But we found something inside the jacket.”
He held up a small black device.
A remote detonator.
My blood turned cold.
Then every television screen in Carter Tower came back on at once.
The ballroom displays.
The hallway monitors.
The small television mounted inside the dressing suite.
A video began to play.
It showed me standing over Daniel Cross’s unconscious body four years earlier.
In my hand was a blood-covered knife.
Across the bottom of the screen, white letters appeared.
ELENA MARLOWE: MURDERER.
Then Andrew’s voice filled the building.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the woman Ethan Carter is protecting is not a victim.”
May you like
The video zoomed in on my face.
“She is the reason Daniel Cross disappeared.”
