I straightened again, keeping my eye on the hammer as Peter brought it back over his head. This time, when he swung, he put all his effort behind it. At the last minute, I ducked and swiveled to the side in one smooth motion.

The hammer landed with a sickening clop. Luna’s eyes went surprised for half a second—looking almost like normal eyes—and then fluttered closed. The force of the blow whipped her head to the side, blood spouting in all directions; I felt it on my face like ocean spray. There was a hole in her temple where the hammer had met it. Her body had gone limp. I jumped away, extricating myself from between them and falling backward onto my butt, and watched as Luna’s body slumped to the ground, her eyes open and vacant.

Peter dropped the hammer and screamed, something unintelligible, as he went to her. I crawled on my hands and knees to grab the hammer, which had bounced within reach. The handle had Luna’s blood on it, and a hunk of brown curly hair stuck to the ball of it, and my arm was aching and shaking so hard I could barely hold it, but I didn’t care. I scooted away from Peter.

He turned from the rail, his face a gash of rage, and started to come after me.

“Don’t even think about it,” I heard.

Chris was standing at the top of the grand staircase, his gun trained on Peter Fairchild. Peter stopped, his hands up, and I collapsed forward, hanging my head between my knees while Chris arrested him.

It was finally over.

34

THEY HAD JUST finished setting my arm and were busy getting my discharge paperwork in order when Dad arrived at the hospital. He pushed through the curtain, a panicked expression on his face.

I tried a smirk that failed, my chin going all stupid wobbly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Oh, Nikki.” He came to my bedside but seemed afraid to touch me. “How bad is it?”

I shrugged. “I’ll live.”

“Why did you keep this from me?”

“I think I can probably ask you the same thing,” I said.

We locked eyes for a long moment. And for the first time in maybe forever, I felt a real connection there. There was nothing to be hidden between us. He pulled a chair close enough to the bed that he could hold my good hand. He stared at his shoes, seeming to be weighing where he should begin, so I helped him out.

“You knew about Mom and Hollywood Dreams,” I said. “And you knew about Peyton, right?”

He nodded and then shook his head. “I knew about the job, yes, but I didn’t know about the baby until after she came back.”

“And you didn’t, like, demand a paternity test? What if Peyton was actually yours?”

“Your mother said the baby wasn’t mine, and I trusted her.”