Page 69 of Hell On Heels
Razor was still fifteen minutes behind her. Just enough time to grab her mail and go upstairs to pack a bag before he’d be there.
Digging out her house keys, she opened the mailbox and grabbed the envelopes that were sticking halfway out. She started up the steps, tucking the mail between her teeth without thinking so she could unlock the front door.
As she reached for the doorknob, her phone rang. Lottie let go of the handle, pulling the mail from between her teeth as she answered. Using her hip, she shoved the door open at the same time, phone already at her ear. She left the keys in the lock, shifting them as she stepped inside.
“Hello, whore.”
The mail slipped from her hand, scattering across the floor. Lottie froze. Shannon stood inside, a gun trained on her.
Shannon stepped forward slightly, voice calm and sharp as glass, “Stop and close the door.”
When Lottie stayed rooted in place, Shannon’s expression sharpened.
“Do it,” she said cooly, “or I’ll shoot you and kill Razor later. After he gets to watch you bleed out on the floor.”
That got Lottie moving, she slowly closed the door. Only then did she realize she’d left the keys hanging in the lock. Through the phone, Sway’s voice was breaking through, frantically calling her name, telling her to say something.
Lottie swallowed hard. “What do you want, Shannon?”
Shannon’s grip tightened on the gun.
“Merrit,” she said flatly. “And I can’t have him while you’re in the way.”
Lottie strained to hear Sway’s voice through the phone, searching for any sign that help was coming, that someone had picked up on what was happening.
“If you want Merritt, just take him, “ she said evenly.
Shannon looked at her like she was something trapped, something already caught in a web that didn’t need tightening. She moved slowly through the room, circling without ever breaking aim, keeping Lottie in her sights the entire time. She waved toward the sofa.
Lottie forced herself to breathe. She reminded herself, again, that she wasn’t a victim. Not yet. Ignoring the gun, she steppedfarther into the apartment. She needed Shannon talking. Distracted. Focused on her instead of whatever Sway might be doing on the other end of the call.
Setting her purse on the kitchen counter, she shifted her phone with it, tucking it just out of sight behind the bag. If Shannon saw it, she’d take it. And Lottie couldn’t afford to lose that lifetime.
Resting her hand on the kitchen counter, Lottie searched for anything, any angle to keep Shannon talking, keep her anchored in the room and off balance.
“Do you mind if I pour a glass of wine?” she asked carefully.
It was a long shot. But Shannon hesitated only a second before giving a sharp, dismissive nod. “Would you like one?”
The question barely landed before Shannon snarled, “You bitch.” Shannon snapped instead, voice rising. “You’re the reason Merritt won’t see me. Why he’s mad about the baby!”
Closing her eyes, Lottie realized her time was running out. Reminding herself this wasn’t a social call. This was a pissed-off, delusional woman with a gun.
“I hate that you are suffering,” she said quietly.
The words came out wrong the second they left her mouth. She could feel it immediately, like striking a match to dry grass.
Shannon screamed again. Raising her free hand, she started yanking at her own hair, pulling it out in fistfuls, pacing the edge of control like it was something she could physically tear apart.
Lottie started backing toward her bedroom. Her derringer was in her nightstand. If she could get to it, she had a chance. A small, shaky chance.
Shannon’s gun snapped up. The shot cracked through the apartment. The bullet slammed into the refrigerator door instead of her.
Lottie screamed anyway, dropping to the kitchen floor. Her pulse roared in her ears as she looked up, seeing the fresh hole punched through the metal where her head had just been.
She scrambled, dragging herself around the table, chairs screeching against the floor as she tried to use them for cover. Footsteps followed her. Lottie tracked her by sound alone, circling the kitchen in a tightening loop. Every move she made was mirrored, every attempt to break away met with Shannon adjusting her angle.
It became a sick, spinning pattern, ring around the rosy, except there was no rhyme, no childhood ease. Just breathing, footsteps, and a gun that kept finding her too fast.
