Chapter 8 - The Showdown And The Water That Broke At The Worst Possible Time
The room reeked of gasoline, sharp and suffocating, making my eyes burn and my throat close up. The baby kicked hard, frantic, and I took a slow step forward, my hands up, trying to look calm even though my heart was about to beat out of my chest.
“Put the match down, Brian,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “It’s over. Cole’s in custody. He told Beau everything. The cops are five minutes away. You’re not getting out of this.”
He laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, and waved the match around like it was a toy. “Cole’s an idiot. Always was. He talked ‘cause he’s weak. I’m not weak. I’ve got nothing left to lose. You think I care if I go to jail? I’m either gonna be rich or I’m gonna be dead. Either way, I win. ‘Cause if I’m going down? You’re going down with me. And that little bastard you’re carrying? It’s mine, too. If I can’t have the money? Neither can it.”
He took a step toward me, the match getting closer and closer to the gasoline-soaked carpet, and I took a step back, my brain racing, trying to think of something, anything, to distract him. I’d seen enough cop shows to know you don’t negotiate with a man holding a match to a room full of gas. You don’t beg. You don’t plead. You make him angry. You make him make a mistake.
“Margaret was right about you,” I said, my voice loud, sharp, cutting through the silence. “You’re not a man. You’re a coward. A weak, pathetic little boy who killed his own grandma ‘cause he was too lazy to get a job. She watched you for 30 years, you know? Paid for your clothes, your car, your college. She loved you like you were her own son. And you repaid her by poisoning her tea. What do you think Thomas would say if he was here? He’d be ashamed of you. Ashamed he ever had a son as worthless as you.”
Brian’s face turned purple with rage. The match in his hand trembled. “Shut up,” he snarled, taking another step toward me. “Shut your mouth, you stupid —”
“GET ON THE GROUND, BRIAN!”
Beau burst through the back door, his gun drawn, his voice booming so loud the windows rattled. Brian spun around, startled, and his hand jerked. The match slipped from his fingers, falling slow, slow, slow toward the gasoline-soaked floor.
Time stopped.
I dove for it, stretching as far as I could, my fingers brushing the tiny flame an inch before it hit the carpet. I screamed as the fire burned my fingertips, but I clamped down hard, snuffing it out between my palms, gasping in relief.
It was out.
Brian roared, lunging for me, but Beau was faster. He fired a warning shot into the ceiling, and Brian froze, his hands up, his eyes wide with fear for the first time all night.
“Kneel,” Beau said, his voice ice cold. “Hands behind your head. Now.”
Brian sank to his knees, still glaring at me, and Beau stepped forward to cuff him — and that’s when I saw it: the small, silver gun tucked into the waistband of Brian’s jeans, the one Beau hadn’t noticed.
“Beau, behind you —” I yelled, but it was too late.
Brian grabbed the gun, spun around, and fired. The bullet hit Beau in the shoulder, and he grunted, stumbling back, his own gun clattering to the floor. Brian raised the gun again, aiming straight at Beau’s chest, and I did the only thing I could think of.
I grabbed the heavy brass fireplace poker from the hearth — the one I’d used a hundred times to stoke the fire in the winter — and swung it as hard as I could, hitting Brian square in the side of the head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, the gun sliding across the room.
I ran to Beau, falling to my knees next to him, pressing my hands to the bleeding wound in his shoulder. “You’re okay,” I said, over and over, like if I said it enough it would be true. “You’re gonna be okay. The cops are almost here. Just hold on.”
He smiled, weak, squeezing my hand. “Told you you were a fighter.”
That’s when it happened.
A warm gush of liquid ran down my legs, soaking through my sweatpants, pooling on the floor beneath me. I froze, my brain going blank for a second, then I looked down, disbelieving.
My water had broken.
Right there, in my gasoline-soaked living room, next to my unconscious ex-boyfriend and a bleeding sheriff, 34 weeks pregnant, I was going into labor.
“Uh, Beau?” I said, my voice high, panicked. “We have a problem.”
He looked down, his eyes going wide. “Oh. Oh no. Not now. Ellie, you have to hold on. The ambulance is —”
Another contraction hit, hard, so painful I screamed, doubling over, and I knew. There was no holding on. This baby was coming. Right now. Right here.
The front door burst open then, a dozen deputies pouring in, followed by two paramedics, their eyes going wide when they saw the scene: Brian cuffed on the floor, Beau bleeding, me on my knees, screaming through a contraction.
“WE HAVE A LABORING MOTHER HERE!” one of the paramedics yelled, dropping to her knees next to me, cutting off my sweatpants with a pair of scissors. “Get a gurney, now! And someone get that maniac out of here before he wakes up!”
The next hour was a blur of pain and noise and bright lights. They carried me out on a stretcher, Beau right behind me, his arm in a sling, refusing to go to the other hospital till he knew I was okay. I screamed through every contraction, cursing Brian, cursing Margaret for leaving me all this money and drama, cursing myself for ever thinking mowing an old lady’s lawn was a nice, simple thing to do.
And then, at 7:12 a.m., with the sun rising over Maple Street, painting the sky pink and gold, I heard it: the loud, angry, perfect cry of my daughter.
“She’s here,” the paramedic said, smiling, wrapping her in a warm blanket and placing her on my chest. “Five pounds, four ounces. A little early, but perfect. Lungs are strong. Just like her mom.”
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I looked down at her, at her tiny, scrunched-up face, her full head of dark hair, her little hand wrapped around my finger, and I forgot all about the pain, all about the fear, all about the last week of hell. She was here. She was healthy. She was mine.
Nothing else mattered.
