Page 107 of Everyone’s a Liar

Adrian stepped forward, his expression hard, although there was a dread in his eyes that he couldn’t hide. As if he was afraid of what he was going to have to do.

Odd considering she wasn’t the first person he’d killed.

“Let’s go,” he commanded.

Glancing toward the French doors, Livia was preparing to make her life-or-death leap when, without warning, they burst open. She blinked in shock. Had she somehow managed to open them with the force of her frantic need to escape?

Then reality returned with a painful explosion of sound as Adrian wildly began shooting toward the dark opening.

Slapping her hands over her ears, Livia scurried behind a nearby chair, instinctively trying to avoid the bullets that her uncle was spraying indiscriminately in her direction. The idiot was going to kill all of them. Delilah and Helene seemed to agree as they screamed and knocked over furniture in a wild dash to get out of the room.

Then abruptly, the crazy melee came to an end as the sound of a male voice boomed through the air.

“Drop the gun, Benoit, and put your hands behind your back, you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”

The shooting stopped, but Livia remained behind the chair as she peeked around the edge to see Sheriff Finn Maxwell slapping a pair of cuffs on her uncle, who was hanging his head, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

Still not sure if it was safe to come out, Livia was distracted as a second person entered the room. This one from the open French doors.

Joy blasted through Livia as she leaped to her feet, all thoughts of her monstrous family forgotten as she ran toward her bedraggled friend.

“Bryce! You’re alive.”

Bryce managed a wry smile despite the mud that covered her from head to toe and the deep gash that was leaking blood from her neck.

“It takes more than a gunshot wound, a few alligators, and a grumpy sheriff to keep me away,” she assured Livia.

Then, still smiling, Bryce toppled forward, fainting into Livia’s outstretched arms.

CHAPTER 25

New Orleans, LA

Wednesday, July 9th

It was midmorning the next day before Livia managed to make it to the hospital to visit her friend.

She’d spent a couple hours after being rescued at the sheriff’s office in Rushville giving her statement before returning to her home in New Orleans, where she showered and managed to choke down some breakfast despite her lingering queasiness. There was no point in trying to sleep. She would only toss and turn, reliving each horrific moment of the past few days: finding Larry Sutton’s body, slogging through the swamp only to be threatened by her crazy uncle, discovering her mother had been murdered by her grandfather.

For the next day or two, she was simply going to concentrate on the fact that she was alive and that Bryce was on her way to recovery.

Changing into fresh clothing, Livia took the time to style her hair and put on some makeup before driving across town to the hospital. She wanted to appear calm and composed for her friend, even if she felt rubbed raw on the inside. Bryce was the sort of person to be more concerned about Livia’s mental state than her own injuries. She didn’t want to give her any reason to worry.

Entering the hospital, she took the stairs to the upper floor. She wasn’t ready to be trapped in a confined space. Not yet. Wandering down the long hallway, she grimaced at the sharp tang of antiseptic and freshly waxed floors. It was a universal smell of hospitals everywhere.

Turning a corner, she at last found Bryce’s room and poked her head through the open door. She frowned, confused by the deep shadows.

“Bryce?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Awake and ready to get out of here,” an annoyed voice snapped.

Entering the room, Livia realized there was a long curtain suspended from the ceiling that divided the space in half. Brushing past the barrier, she discovered Bryce propped up in bed, fully dressed and obviously champing at the bit to leave.

Relief slammed into her with an unexpected force. When she’d seen her friend collapse, she’d been terrified that she’d been fatally injured. And even after Finn had assured her that Bryce was at the hospital, comfortably recovering from her gunshot wound and potential concussion, she’d worried that things were worse than he was willing to admit.

She would never, ever forgive herself if Bryce died. Or even if she was seriously wounded.

Now she happily studied her friend’s flushed cheeks and sparkle of irritation in her eyes. The awful pallor of her skin was gone, along with the splatters of blood. Only the gauze taped to the side of her neck revealed she’d recently been injured.