“Cleaner could be coming. You can’t stay.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“In the den… a severed finger.”

“Severed finger?”

“Take it with you.”

She felt numb. Everything had happened so fast. Tranquility had turned into chaos. Blood splatter covered everything. The walls. Carpets. Ceiling. The room smelled of burned gunpowder, plaster dust, and the coppery salt of gore. The man she loved—loved?—was lying in a growing pool of his own blood.

“Nathan, I can’t leave you here.”

His head slumped to the carpet.

Part of her wanted to run. Her instinct for self preservation was strong. She looked at the garage door. Beyond it, certain escape. She could be gone within ten seconds, fifteen at the most. She looked at the wound on her forearm. It could have been a lot worse if it weren’t for this man. She could never face herself again if she abandoned him, even if it meant her life.

Fueled by a desire to save herself and Nathan, she groped her way into his bedroom and noticed the bottom of her feet stung. She must’ve stepped on some broken glass. She found a necktie in his closet and a washcloth in his bathroom. She set her Glock on the bathroom counter, folded the washcloth into a small square, and covered her forearm wound. Using her other hand and her teeth, she cinched the necktie to secure the washcloth in place, careful not to make it too tight. Back in the den, she tried to rouse Nathan, but got no response.

Steeling herself against the pain in her forearm and feet, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and dragged him toward the door leading into the garage. She cried out as the torn muscles in her left arm ripped even more. She bit her lip and kept going, but the slate floor in front of the garage door was covered with broken glass and debris. She found a push broom in the garage and swept a corridor through the mess, then used the broom to prop open the door.

She dragged Nathan across the threshold, but quickly decided that dead-lifting him into his Mustang would be impossible. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he felt like solid iron. She’d never be able to do it.

The hand on her shoulder made her yelp in fear.

She whipped around, ready for a fight.

“Harvey!”

“I’ve got him. How bad is your arm?”

“How did you—”

“Later. How bad is your arm?”

“I think it’s okay, just bleeding a lot.”

“Does Nathan have any kind of spinal wound?”

“I don’t think so.”

She marveled at how easily Harvey lifted him off the garage floor and carried him out to the driveway.

“Holly, cover us.”