Chapter 154 This Is My Fault
Chapter 154 This Is My Fault
By six thirty, Lila's gallery no longer resembled the controlled chaos Amelia had left the evening before. Every ladder, extension cord, cardboard box, half-empty coffee cup and disgruntled lighting technician had vanished, leaving behind the polished vision Lila had been working toward for months.
The white walls seemed to glow beneath carefully directed lighting, each piece of art commanding its own space without competing with the one beside it. Elegant floral arrangements softened the room without overwhelming the artwork, champagne chilled behind the bar, and caterers moved between the growing crowd with practiced efficiency.
Amelia's attention, however, went immediately to the children's collection from the October gala.
Lila had kept her word. The pieces hadn't been tucked into a corner or separated from the professional artists beneath some well-intentioned charitable label. They had been professionally framed, individually lit and displayed among the other collections as exactly what Lila believed them to be.
Art.
Amelia stood several feet away with a smile she couldn't suppress.
“Stop.”
She glanced over her shoulder to find Lila approaching in a sleek black gown, lifting the hem slightly as she navigated around a server carrying a tray of champagne.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like you're proud of me.”
“I am proud of you.”
“Don't.”
Amelia laughed. “Why?”
“Because I have managed not to cry once today, and I'm not starting now.”
“You're not going to cry.”
“Exactly, so stop looking at me.”
Amelia deliberately widened her smile.
“Bitch.”
“Uh-huh. That's my girl.”
Lila laughed and pulled her into a careful hug. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you.”
Amelia had chosen a deep sapphire-blue gown that fell softly over her body rather than clinging to it, with an elegant neckline and fabric gathered subtly at her waist. Her pregnancy wasn't visible yet, not really, although apparently that no longer mattered because the entire world knew about it.
Or at least it felt that way.
She had learned that within approximately four minutes of entering the gallery, when congratulations began following her from the entrance. People congratulated her on the baby, the engagement, the wedding and whatever fresh headline someone had apparently written about the Hearst family that afternoon.
Bryson found the attention amusing.
Amelia considerably less so.
“You know, when you and Claire asked if you could post that picture, neither of you mentioned that complete strangers would begin discussing my uterus.”
Lila's smile widened. “Would it have changed your answer?”
“No.”
“Then the omission was harmless.”
“It was deceptive.”
“Semantics.”
“You're going to make a terrible aunt.”
Lila looked genuinely offended. “Impossible. I'm going to be the favorite.”
“There are other options, you know.”
“There could be twelve. I'm still winning.”
Amelia laughed. “Where's Claire?”
“Making Roderick take pictures of her. And my brother is being cornered by three investors and pretending he doesn't want to murder them because this is my opening.”
Amelia glanced across the gallery.
Bryson stood near one of Julian's sculptures, devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, one hand tucked casually into his pocket as he listened to an older man speak. As if sensing her attention, his eyes found hers immediately.
Amelia smiled.
His gaze moved over her slowly, lingering in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with checking whether she was safe, before dropping briefly toward her stomach.
Amelia rolled her eyes.
Bryson smiled.
“Disgusting,” Lila murmured.
“You started this.”
“I helped introduce you. I did not authorize whatever this is.”
“Your brother loves me.”
“My brother is obsessed with you.”
“Same difference.”
“It really isn't.”
Amelia was still laughing when a gallery representative appeared and reluctantly pulled Lila away.
The opening had officially begun only thirty minutes earlier, but the room was already filling with collectors, artists, critics, press and enough recognizable faces that Amelia had stopped trying to remember where she'd seen them. Naomi stood near her largest portrait speaking animatedly with a couple Amelia suspected were considering buying it, while Julian Carr lingered near his sculptures pretending not to monitor everyone's reactions while very obviously doing exactly that.
Security blended into the room just as carefully.
Most guests probably didn't notice.
Amelia did.
Ethan remained near the entrance while Cole covered the opposite side of the main floor. Evan moved regularly between the public spaces and quieter areas of the gallery, but Marcus had stayed close enough to Amelia all evening that she could almost measure the distance without looking.
She glanced over her shoulder.
There he was.
“You know that's creepy.”
Marcus didn't blink. “What's creepy?”
“You.”
“Specifics?”
“You're following me without following me.”
“That's my job.”
“You're staring at me.”
“Also my job.”
“You've been approximately eight feet away from me since we arrived.”
“Nine.”
Amelia stared at him until the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I'm fine.”
“I know.”
The words carried something different between them now.
Amelia reached out and briefly squeezed his forearm before turning back toward the room.
Marcus let her go without comment, but his attention immediately moved beyond her again. He watched the entrances, windows and people moving through the gallery, taking particular notice of anyone whose path carried them near Amelia. When she crossed the room, he shifted with her. Whenever something briefly required his attention elsewhere, Evan quietly closed the distance until Marcus returned.
Neither man made a production of it.
They were simply doing exactly what Marcus had said they would do.
Yesterday's figure across the street had given them nothing useful enough to act on. Security footage had confirmed that someone had paused there and appeared to look toward the gallery, but between the distance, passing traffic and poor angle, there had been no identifiable face or vehicle. In Manhattan, someone standing across the street looking at a building could mean absolutely nothing.
Marcus still didn't like it.
So tonight, he stayed close.
Amy Reynolds had always hated champagne.
It tasted like expensive television static.
She smiled anyway when a server offered her a glass.
“Thank you.”
He moved on, and Amy lifted the champagne to her lips without drinking as she surveyed the room.
She had spent nearly forty minutes getting ready before leaving her hotel, which was ridiculous considering she wasn't here to impress anyone. She had, however, needed to make sure she didn't look like Ashley.
That had been considerably easier than it sounded.
Ashley hadn't worn her natural hair color in years. Amy had never understood why. Their hair had been one of the few things Amy genuinely liked about their genetics, a rich copper-red that turned almost auburn in low light and caught fire beneath the sun.
Ashley dyed hers.
Amy didn't.
Tonight, Amy's red hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and she'd deliberately kept her makeup lighter than her sister usually wore. Their clothes were different, their mannerisms were different and even the way they carried themselves had always been different.
Their eyes were harder to disguise.
They had the same green eyes, although Ashley's had always appeared darker somehow, a deep forest green made heavier by the way she looked at people. Amy's were brighter.
Clearer.
Or at least that was what people had always told them.
She had still spent an uncomfortable amount of time staring at herself in the mirror before leaving her hotel.
She had almost stayed there.
Then she'd remembered Ashley sitting behind the visitation glass on Christmas.
Pregnant.
Scared.
Alone.
Just look.
That was all Amy had agreed to do.
She would look, observe and decide for herself whether Amelia Prescott was the woman Ashley claimed she was. She wasn't approaching Bryson, interfering with security, following Amelia anywhere after tonight or doing anything remotely illegal.
Those were the rules.
Amy had added one more on the ride over.
Nobody would know her real name until she understood what the hell she'd walked into.
She finally took a sip of champagne and immediately regretted it.
Still awful.
“Brittany?”
Amy turned toward the woman who had checked her credentials.
“Yes?”
“Enjoy the evening.”
“Thank you.”
Brittany.
The name had come to her in the car. She didn't know why, and it didn't matter.
Tonight she was Brittany.
Tomorrow she could go back to being Amy Reynolds and decide whether she ever wanted to answer another call from her sister again.
Finding Amelia wasn't difficult, although Amy spotted Bryson first.
That annoyed her.
Even after all these years, she recognized him immediately.
He looked older than he had that night, but not old. He simply seemed more settled into himself now, broader and harder, the kind of man who no longer needed to announce that he belonged in a room because the room adjusted around him.
For one uncomfortable second, memory threatened to surface.
A hotel suite.
Darkness.
Ashley's whisper.
A terrible decision Amy had spent years refusing to examine too closely.
She pushed it down.
Not tonight.
Then Bryson looked across the room.
Amy followed his gaze and found Amelia.
She was laughing.
That was Amy's first thought.
Not beautiful, although she was. Not pregnant, although Amy knew she was. Not Bryson's fiancée.
Laughing.
Amelia stood with Claire and Lila, her head tipped slightly back as all three laughed about something. There was nothing guarded or calculating about her in that moment, and Amy frowned because she didn't know what she'd expected.
A bitch, probably.
Someone cold and entitled. Someone who measured every person in the room by what they could give her.
That was the woman Ashley had described.
This woman was currently trying to take a champagne glass away from Lila while Lila held it above her head.
Amy watched for several seconds.
Just look.
So she did.
It took nearly twenty minutes for Amelia to notice the redheaded woman standing in front of the children's collection.
She wasn't behaving strangely or awkwardly. She simply seemed content to drift between paintings alone, occasionally speaking with someone before returning to whatever had caught her attention.
Amelia noticed her because she had been studying one of the children's paintings for several minutes.
Amelia glanced toward Marcus before excusing herself from Claire.
He was speaking quietly with Evan several yards away, but his eyes followed her movement immediately.
Apparently nine feet was negotiable.
Amelia crossed to the display.
“That's one of my favorites.”
The woman turned.
Up close, Amelia was immediately struck by her eyes.
Bright green.
Beautiful.
“Oh.” The woman smiled. “I was hoping I wasn't blocking you.”
“You weren't.”
Amelia looked toward the painting, a riot of blues, yellows and oranges covering the canvas.
“He was eleven when he painted that.”
The woman's eyebrows rose. “Eleven?”
“Mmhmm.”
“That's mildly devastating to my self-esteem.”
Amelia laughed. “I can't draw a straight line.”
“Neither can I. That's why I'm drinking.”
Amelia glanced toward the nearly full champagne glass.
“You've barely touched it.”
The woman looked down. “You caught me.”
“Not a champagne person?”
“Tastes like television static.”
Amelia laughed loudly enough that Marcus looked over.
The woman noticed.
“Security?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I heard that,” Marcus called.
Amelia glanced over her shoulder. “You're supposed to pretend you can't.”
“I don't lie.”
The redhead laughed.
Amelia extended her hand. “Amelia.”
For the smallest fraction of a second, something shifted in the woman's expression.
Then she accepted it.
“Brittany.”
“Nice to meet you, Brittany.”
“You too.”
Brittany turned back toward the paintings. “These are really from kids?”
“Several of them. They're connected to a youth program I've worked with. Lila saw some of their work at a gala in October and apparently started plotting behind my back.”
“Your sister?”
“Soon-to-be.”
Brittany nodded toward Lila. “She owns the gallery?”
“She does.”
“And the kids actually get paid if somebody buys one?”
“Every penny that belongs to them.”
Brittany smiled. “That's pretty cool.”
“It is.”
Someone called Amelia's name from across the room.
“Duty calls.”
“Go.”
“It was nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Amelia walked away.
Amy watched her go.
That had told her absolutely nothing except that Ashley had described Amelia as condescending.
She hadn't been.
Five minutes with someone didn't prove anything, but it was the first crack in the story Amy had been given.
So she kept looking.
Somehow, she talked to Amelia again.
Then again.
By the fourth conversation, Amy wasn't entirely certain who had approached whom.
Amelia was easy to talk to, which Amy found increasingly irritating. She was also funny, which was worse, and every time Amy attempted to steer their conversation toward something useful, someone interrupted.
Eventually, Claire and Lila joined them near one of the cocktail tables while Lila complained about Julian moving one of his sculptures.
“He moved it two inches,” Lila said.
Amelia shook her head. “Yesterday it was three.”
“He compromised.”
Claire looked between them. “Who is Julian?”
“One of my artists.”
“He's hot?”
Lila stared at her.
“What?” Claire asked. “I'm not dead.”
Amelia laughed.
Amy did too.
Lila looked toward her. “See? Brittany understands.”
Amy lifted her glass. “I'm staying out of committed-people business.”
Something about the words made her think of Carl.
This was her opening.
“I have to admit, I don't know how you guys handle people knowing so much about your lives.”
Amelia groaned. “We don't.”
Claire snorted. “We complain privately.”
“I saw the baby announcement,” Amy continued. “Congratulations.”
Amelia's hand moved instinctively toward her stomach. “Thank you.”
“That picture was gorgeous. Although I'm assuming the internet has now lost its mind.”
“Apparently my unborn child has fan pages.”
“Already?”
“Don't encourage it.”
Lila looked delighted. “Baby Hearst is an icon.”
“Baby Hearst is approximately the size of a blueberry.”
“An iconic blueberry.”
Claire nearly spit out her drink, and Amy laughed with them.
For a moment, she forgot why she was there.
Then she remembered Ashley behind the glass.
“I hope this isn't rude, but I saw some of the other stuff online too.”
Amelia's smile remained, but caution entered her eyes.
“What other stuff?”
“Your ex-husband. And that woman.”
Claire and Lila both changed immediately.
Amy lifted one hand. “You don't have to talk about it. Seriously. I shouldn't have asked.”
“No, it's fine,” Amelia said. “There's just a lot of nonsense online.”
“I figured.” Amy let a beat pass. “Carl, right?”
“Yes.”
“Your ex?”
Amelia nodded. “He's made some unfortunate decisions since our marriage ended.”
Claire choked on her drink.
Amelia looked at her. “Claire.”
“I'm sorry, but that's such an Amelia way to describe that man completely losing his damn mind.”
Lila nodded solemnly. “She's translating.”
Amelia sighed while Amy laughed.
Then Amy carefully asked, “And Ashley?”
The change in Amelia surprised her.
She didn't become angry.
She looked tired.
That interested Amy more.
Claire rolled her eyes. “Deranged.”
“Claire.”
“She is.”
“I read that she attacked somebody,” Amy said.
“Nadia,” Amelia answered.
“Her friend?”
“Best friend,” Lila corrected.
Amy already knew that.
She pretended she didn't.
“Why?”
Amelia hesitated. “It's complicated.”
“Not really,” Claire muttered.
Amelia looked at her.
Claire shrugged. “Ashley sent Nadia to sleep with Carl. Nadia eventually stopped doing what Ashley wanted, told the truth, and Ashley attacked her.”
Amy's fingers tightened around her glass.
“I'm sorry. What?”
Claire blinked. “Which part?”
“Ashley sent her best friend to sleep with Amelia's husband?”
“At the time,” Amelia said quietly.
“You were still married?”
“Yes.”
“And Nadia agreed?”
Amelia's expression became complicated. “Nadia made choices she's responsible for, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But Ashley manipulated a lot of people.”
Amy stared at her.
Ashley had told her Nadia betrayed her.
Ashley had somehow forgotten to mention this part.
“What truth did Nadia tell you?”
Amelia gently shook her head. “That isn't really my story to tell.”
Fair enough.
Lila was less restrained.
“She told us Ashley was behind half the shit that had been happening.”
“Lila.”
“What? She did.”
Amy looked between them. “And Nadia is pregnant too, right?”
Silence.
Amelia's gaze sharpened.
Amy immediately realized she'd gone too far.
“I saw something online,” she added quickly. “I might be mixing people up.”
Claire answered before Amelia could.
“Yes.”
Amy waited.
“Carl's.”
Amy nearly inhaled champagne.
“Wait.”
Lila's mouth twitched.
Amy looked at Amelia. “Both of them?”
Amelia closed her eyes.
Claire nodded.
“Girl.”
“Claire.”
“She asked.”
Amy stared at them.
Ashley was pregnant by Carl.
Nadia was pregnant by Carl.
Ashley had sent Nadia to sleep with Carl.
Yet Ashley had somehow constructed a version of events in which Amelia was furious because Ashley had given Carl the child Amelia never had.
Amy's eyes dropped involuntarily toward Amelia's stomach.
Amelia noticed.
“It's messy.”
“That's one word.”
“Believe me, I have several others.”
Amy laughed faintly.
Claire shook her head. “The wildest part wasn't even Carl.”
Amy already knew what was coming.
Her stomach tightened.
“Claire,” Amelia warned.
“No, because I still don't understand it. Ashley was walking around acting like Amelia stole Bryson from her.”
Amy became very still.
Lila groaned. “That was insane.”
“She slept with Bryson once,” Claire continued. “Years ago.”
Amelia glanced toward Bryson across the room.
“And he never called her,” Claire finished.
Amy's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
Lila shook her head. “Yet she'd show up places acting like they had some great lost love and Amelia had inserted herself into it.”
Amy looked at Amelia. “She actually did that?”
“More than once.”
Something cold moved through Amy.
You knew what Bryson meant to me.
Ashley had said that Christmas.
Not we were together.
Not he loved me.
You knew what he meant to me.
Amy had heard versions of that sentence her entire life. What Ashley felt, what Ashley wanted and what Ashley believed someone owed her eventually became facts inside Ashley's head.
Amy looked across the gallery.
Bryson was watching Amelia again.
When Amelia caught him, the smile that passed between them was so private Amy felt uncomfortable witnessing it.
Ashley had never had that with him.
Not even close.
For a fleeting second, Amy thought she heard her own name and her heart slammed against her ribs.
Nobody had called her.
Brittany.
Tonight, she was Brittany.
“You okay?” Amelia asked.
Amy looked up.
There was genuine concern on Amelia's face.
And strangely, that was what finally did it.
Ashley had lied.
Maybe not about everything. Maybe Ashley genuinely believed some of the things she'd said, but she had omitted and twisted enough to build the story she needed Amy to believe.
And Amy had walked into this gallery prepared to help her prove it.
“I need some air.”
Amelia touched her arm. “You sure you're okay?”
“Yeah.” Amy forced a smile. “Champagne.”
Claire nodded knowingly. “Television static.”
Amy laughed despite herself. “You remembered.”
“Unfortunately.”
Amy turned away.
She needed five minutes to think.
Then she saw him.
Everything inside her stopped.
Across the gallery, a waiter moved between guests carrying a tray of champagne. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, black vest and tie, making him as professional and forgettable as every other member of the catering staff.
Except Amy knew his face.
Jason.
He had aged, of course. There was more weight in his face now, a faint scar near his jaw that hadn't been there when they were teenagers, and his hair was shorter.
But it was him.
Jason had grown up with Amy and Ashley in the orphanage. He had stolen food for Ashley when they were twelve simply because she said she wanted it and broken another boy's nose at fifteen because the boy called Ashley a liar. Even after Amy learned to tell her sister no, Jason continued following Ashley into one bad decision after another.
As an adult, those decisions had become felonies.
Armed robbery.
Grand theft.
Check fraud.
Prison.
Then freedom, followed eventually by prison again.
Jason didn't fear going back nearly enough.
Especially when Ashley asked for something.
Amy's heart began pounding.
Jason turned, his eyes moving across the room until they stopped on Amelia.
Amy went cold.
He moved again, not directly toward Amelia but past her, casually disappearing among the guests and servers.
There are things I can't tell you here.
Ashley had said that.
Amy set down her glass and followed.
She found Jason near the service corridor speaking briefly with another member of the catering staff and stopped behind a group of guests.
Maybe there was an explanation.
Maybe Jason had somehow acquired a legitimate catering job.
The thought was so ridiculous she nearly laughed.
Jason?
Serving champagne at an invitation-only Manhattan gallery opening attended by the Hearsts?
No.
He moved again.
Across the room, Amelia had wandered toward Naomi's display.
Jason changed direction.
Amy's stomach dropped.
He was tracking her.
“Shit.”
Amy moved.
By the time she reached Amelia, Marcus had shifted with her and stood several feet away, exactly as he had all evening.
“Hey.”
Amelia turned. “Brittany. Feeling better?”
“Yeah. Listen...” Amy glanced behind her.
Jason was gone.
Her pulse jumped.
“Maybe you should stay close to your security tonight.”
Amelia's smile faded. “What?”
“I know that sounds strange.”
“A little.”
“You said you've had people showing up places. Maybe tonight isn't a good night to wander around by yourself.”
Amelia glanced toward Marcus. “I don't think he's allowed me farther than ten feet from him all night.”
“Good.”
Something in Amy's voice made Amelia study her more carefully.
“Brittany, did you see something?”
Tell her.
Amy opened her mouth.
Then what?
Yes, the man I grew up with in an orphanage alongside my identical twin sister Ashley Reynolds is here dressed as a waiter, and I know him because I came here under a fake name after Ashley asked me to investigate you from jail.
“I thought I saw someone watching you.”
Marcus was beside them before Amelia could respond.
“Who?”
Amy looked at him, startled by how quickly he'd appeared.
“I don't know.”
His expression hardened. “You said you saw someone.”
“A waiter. He was looking over here a few times.”
“Which waiter?”
Amy turned toward the crowd.
Jason was nowhere in sight.
“I don't see him now.”
Marcus touched his earpiece, quietly calling Evan before asking Amy for a description.
Male. Caucasian. Dirty-blond hair. White shirt. Black vest.
It described far too many people working the event.
Amy deliberately didn't give Jason's name.
Not yet.
Coward.
The word came immediately.
She hated it because it was true.
“I probably overreacted,” she said.
Marcus looked at her.
He didn't believe that.
Neither did she.
Amelia shifted and rested a hand briefly against her stomach before sighing.
“I need the restroom.”
Marcus immediately looked at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She gave him an amused look. “I'm pregnant, not dying. I have to pee.”
“I'll walk you.”
Amelia didn't argue.
That seemed to surprise him.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You told me to listen the first time if something felt wrong. I'm listening.”
For the briefest moment, something softened in Marcus's expression.
“Come on.”
Amy's uneasiness sharpened as they started toward the quieter hallway.
“Maybe wait.”
Amelia stopped.
“What?”
Amy searched the room again.
No Jason.
“Nothing.”
Amelia studied her for another second before continuing down the hallway with Marcus beside her.
Amy watched them disappear around the corner.
Marcus hadn't left Amelia alone.
That should have made her feel better.
It didn't.
She immediately began searching for Jason.
Nothing.
She moved through the room, passing Naomi's display, Julian's sculptures and the bar before finally spotting him near the opposite side of the gallery.
He no longer carried the champagne tray.
Amy started toward him.
Jason looked up.
Their eyes met.
Recognition was immediate.
There was no question this time.
Jason knew exactly who she was.
His expression didn't change.
Then two servers crossed between them.
Amy hurried forward, but a waitress turned at exactly the wrong moment and the edge of her tray struck Amy's shoulder. A glass tipped, sending cold champagne down the front of her dress.
“Oh my God! I'm so sorry.”
“It's fine.”
“Let me get you—”
“It's fine.”
The waitress grabbed napkins while another employee stopped to help.
Amy tried to look around them.
“Ma'am, I'm so sorry.”
“Move.”
The woman blinked.
Amy pushed past her.
Jason was gone.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She hurried toward the service corridor and found it empty.
Left.
Right.
Nothing.
Then she remembered where Amelia had gone.
The restroom.
Marcus was with her, but Amy knew Jason well enough to understand that a single man standing between him and something Ashley wanted had never been enough to make him walk away.
“Oh, fuck.”
Amy turned and ran.
Not toward the restroom.
Toward Bryson.
Bryson saw the redhead coming before she reached him.
He had noticed her earlier with Amelia. Now she wasn't smiling. She was pale, champagne stained the front of her dress, and she was moving through the crowd with enough urgency that Cole shifted from his position across the room.
“Bryson.”
He turned fully toward her.
“Amelia is in trouble.”
Everything inside him went still.
“What?”
“I need you to come with me.”
His eyes hardened. “Who are you?”
“There isn't time.”
“There is enough time for you to tell me how the fuck you know my fiancée is in trouble.”
Amy looked toward the hallway. “I saw someone.”
“Who?”
“Jason.”
The name meant nothing to him.
“Who is Jason?”
“Someone who should not be here.”
Bryson stared at her. “How do you know him?”
“I—”
“Who are you?”
There was too much to explain, and every second Amy spent protecting herself was another second Amelia was somewhere near Jason.
She looked directly into Bryson's eyes.
“I will tell you everything. I swear to God, I will tell you every fucking thing you want to know, but you need to find Amelia now.”
Something in her face reached him.
Bryson touched his earpiece.
“Marcus.”
Nothing.
His heartbeat changed.
“Marcus, respond.”
Silence.
Bryson was already moving.
“Ethan. Cole. Evan. With me. Now.”
Amy followed.
They reached the corridor, and Bryson turned the corner first.
He stopped.
“Fuck.”
Marcus lay crumpled on the floor several feet from the women's restroom, one arm trapped beneath him. Something small protruded from the side of his neck, and the right side of his shirt was soaked dark with blood.
For one terrible second, Bryson could only stare.
Marcus had stayed with Amelia. He had walked her down this hallway himself, and if he was lying here now, someone had gone through him to get to her.
“Cole!”
Cole was already moving.
He dropped beside Marcus and immediately pressed two fingers against his neck while Bryson's gaze snapped toward the restroom door.
“My wife is in there.”
He started forward.
Ethan caught his arm as Evan stepped in front of him.
“Bryson, wait.”
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Let us go first,” Ethan said firmly.
“My wife is in there.”
“We know,” Evan said, already drawing his weapon. “That's why you need to let us get to her.”
Bryson's entire body fought against the demand to stay where he was, but Ethan and Evan were already moving toward the restroom, weapons drawn as they positioned themselves between him and the door.
Behind them, Cole found Marcus's pulse.
“I've got one. It's weak.”
Bryson looked back long enough to see Cole move his hand toward the blood soaking Marcus's shirt.
“Stab wound,” Cole said. “Right side.”
Bryson's eyes returned immediately to the restroom.
“Cole, radio the others. Get everyone out of here.”
Cole reached for his headset with one hand while keeping the other against Marcus.
“Quietly,” Bryson added. “Make up an excuse. I don't give a damn what it is, but nobody in that room needs to know what's happening back here. Get emergency services around back, and tell them no sirens.”
Cole nodded once and immediately relayed the instructions through his headset, his voice controlled despite the blood beneath his hand. Within seconds, security was moving to clear the gallery under the pretense of an emergency elsewhere in the building while police and EMS were directed toward the rear service entrance.
Bryson barely heard any of it.
His attention remained fixed on Ethan and Evan as they approached the restroom.
Then a muffled sound came from inside.
Every muscle in Bryson's body locked.
“Amelia.”
Evan raised one hand without looking back, signaling for silence.
Another sound followed, this one sharper, as though something had struck the wall.
Bryson moved forward instinctively.
Ethan immediately shifted back into his path.
“Stay behind us.”
“I'm not fucking standing here while she's in there.”
“I'm not asking you to,” Ethan said. “We're going in front of you.”
There was a difference.
A small one.
At that moment, it was the only compromise Bryson was capable of accepting.
Ethan turned back toward the door, and Bryson followed several feet behind as Evan took the lead. No one tried to send him away. Ethan and Evan knew better than to waste time attempting it. Their only concern was making sure they reached whatever waited beyond that door before Bryson did.
Behind them, Cole remained on the floor with Marcus, maintaining pressure against the wound while continuing to coordinate the response through his headset.
Evan reached the restroom door and stopped beside it.
Ethan positioned himself on the opposite side.
They exchanged a glance.
Then Evan eased the door open.
An inch.
Then another.
His entire body went rigid.
Ethan shifted until he could see through the opening, and something in his expression changed.
Bryson saw it.
“What?”
Neither man answered.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“What the fuck do you see?”
Bryson stepped forward.
Ethan threw an arm back, stopping him without taking his eyes from the room.
“Wait.”
“Ethan—”
Then the angle widened just enough.
Bryson saw past them.
And the world disappeared.
Amelia stood against the far wall with a man's arm locked tightly across her upper chest, pinning her against him. Her face was pale, her body rigid and her eyes enormous with fear.
But she was alive.
For one fraction of a second, that was all Bryson could see.
His wife was alive.
Then his gaze dropped to the man's other hand.
To the gun.
Bryson had believed he understood fear.
He had been wrong.
But the barrel wasn't pressed against Amelia's head.
It rested deliberately against her stomach.
Against their baby.
And the man holding it smiled.