Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Fear crawled over me at the reminder.

Ivy was in there alone with a killer.

Pushing the door open carefully, I slipped inside the apartment. Ivy’s floor was covered with deep-pile carpet that masked my steps as I slid along the wall. The apartment opened from the short hall into a living room, like mine.

I swallowed past the lump of apprehension in my throat, heart hammering. I ignored the cold sweat gathering under my arms, and forced myself to peek around the wall.

Freddie stood in the center of the room in a shirt and jeans that looked too big for him. A baseball cap was drawn down over his head.

And he was pointing his gun at Ivy.

Ivy didn’t look as emotionless as she sounded. There was fear in her dark eyes as she stood before him in her sweatpants and T-shirt. Shattered glass lay along the tiled hearth of the fireplace at her back.

“You give me the money, and I’ll leave. You don’t give me the money, I’m going to fuckin’ shoot you in the head. And I will. I got nothing to lose.”

“I-I-I can call my bank manager,” Ivy said, nodding slowly. “It might take a few days.”

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch?” He cocked the gun. “I don’t have a few days.”

Instinct took over.

One second I was behind the wall, the next I was diving at Freddie Jackson without any thought but to stop him from shooting Ivy. We slammed into the ground, Freddie’s expletives filling my head. The gun fell into the thick carpet.

Adrenaline crashed through me as I lunged for it, my hands colliding with Freddie’s. We started to wrestle. The little shit was stronger than he looked. I screamed in rage, pouring all my strength into the fight and—

BANG!

Agonizing pain tore through my shoulder, and I slumped, curling into myself. Fire streaked up my neck and down my arm, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Dahlia McGuire.” A wet glob hit my cheek and the realization I’d been spat on cut through the pain.

Furious, I turned to look up at him, feeling something warm and wet trickle down my shoulder. Blood.

The bastard had shot me.

He straddled me, the gun pointed at my face.

“Does that make you feel like a man? Murderer,” I spat back at him, teeth gritted in agony.

His face crumpled in on itself with temper. “This is what happens to—” Surprise slackened his features. His eyes rolled.

And then he slumped over me and slid onto the carpet, unconscious.

Blinking in shock, I stared up at Ivy, brandishing an Academy Award statuette.

“Did … did you just kill him with an Oscar?”

I didn’t hear Ivy’s response. Black dots spread across my vision. Lots and lots of black dots … until there was nothing but black.

* * *

An irritating beeping noise filled my ears, bringing me out of sleep. Consciousness was followed by unbearable pain. I groaned, pushing my eyes open to see what the hell was burning my goddamn shoulder. Michael’s face, fuzzy, appeared before me.

Michael?

My eyes slammed shut without my say.

“Dahlia, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” an unfamiliar voice said. “We’re on our way to the hospital. Just hold on.”