Page 125 of Cannon

His body slammed into mine like a freight train. We crashed to the floor, the gun firing again as we fell. Pain exploded through my back as I hit the hardwood. Marcus’s weight crushed me, his hands scrambling for the weapon.

I fought like a woman possessed, clawing at his face, bucking my hips to throw him off balance. The gun slipped from my grasp, skittering across the floor.

Marcus’s fist connected with my jaw, stars exploding behind my eyes. I tasted blood but kept fighting, grabbing his throat, digging my nails in deep.

“Fucking bitch!” he wheezed, his knee driving into my stomach.

The air left my lungs in a rush, but adrenaline kept me moving. I saw the gun just inches away. Marcus saw it too. We both lunged for it at the same time.

His fingers closed around the grip first. Desperate, I drove my knee up between his legs with every ounce of strength I had left.

He howled, doubling over. I scrambled forward, wresting the gun from his weakened grip. My finger found the trigger as he recovered, lunging at me again.

I didn’t hesitate. The gun roared in my hand, the recoil jarring up my arm as I squeezed the trigger. Marcus’s head snapped back, a spray of crimson misting the air behind him. His body crumpled, eyes still open but seeing nothing, a perfect hole in his forehead where my bullet had entered.

“ZaZa!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. My daughter had slumped against the wall, her body unnaturally still. That’s when I saw the dark stain spreading across her stomach, soaking through her designer top.

“Baby, no!” I rushed to her, dropping to my knees beside her. “ZaZa, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Her breathing was shallow, each inhale a painful wheeze. When I pressed my hand against the wound, warm blood seeped between my fingers.

“Stay with me,” I begged, fumbling for my phone with my free hand. “Don’t you dare leave me, baby girl. Not like this.”

My fingers left bloody prints on the screen as I dialed 911, my voice breaking as I gave the dispatcher our address.

“My daughter’s been shot,” I said, pressing harder on the wound. “She’s unconscious but breathing. Please hurry.”

Please God, don’t let my daughter die.

Chapter 47

Cannon

I sat in that plastic chair, my back straight as a fucking board, my heart hammering like I’d just done a ten-mile sprint. The Child Protective Services waiting room felt tight and dark. The only other time I had to be in a place like this was when someone at Reese’s school called to do a welfare check on us. This was after our adoptive mother became unstable. We both lied and made it seem as though everything was okay because we wanted to stay together. I loved Reese so much like she was blood, and I was determined to love her boys the same way.

Hunter and Josiah sat on either side of me, both of them quiet in a way kids their age should never be.

“Uncle Cannon?” Josiah’s small voice broke through the silence. “Are they gonna let us stay with you?”

I swallowed hard, putting my arm around his thin shoulders. “That’s the plan, little man.”

But my gut was twisted in knots. I knew my record wasn’t clean. I knew that despite my money, despite everything I could provide for them, the system might look at me and see nothing but an ex-con. Someone unfit to raise two traumatized boys.

Hunter leaned against my side, his small body warm and trusting. “I don’t wanna go nowhere else,” he mumbled into my shirt.

“I know, Hunt,” I ruffled his hair, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m doing everything I can.”

The clock on the wall ticked by so slow it felt deliberate. Fifteen minutes turned to thirty. My leg bounced with nervous energy, but I forced myself to stay calm for the boys’ sake. The social worker had told us to be here at ten sharp. It was now almost eleven, and we were still waiting.

I couldn’t stop seeing Reese’s face in those final moments, that terrible clarity in her eyes before she pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot still echoed in my dreams. How the fuck was I supposed to explain to these kids that their mama chose to leave them? That their daddy was gone too, killed by my own hands at their mama’s request?

“Mr. Price?” A woman’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “We’re ready for you now.”

I looked up to see a middle-aged Black woman with kind eyes and a clipboard. She smiled at the boys, then back at me.

I stood, taking each boy by the hand. “Thank you, Ms. Thompson.”

We followed her down a narrow hallway with motivational posters about family and bright children’s artwork taped to the walls. My palms were sweating, but I kept my grip firm on the boys’ hands.