Page 264 of It Happened on the Lake

A cabinet near Harper’s head splintered! Chunks of wood flew through the kitchen. Another wild shot.

Harper threw herself toward the foyer and the front door. If she could just get outside, she had a chance. She sped over the marble, skidding as she reached the door.

Bang!

Once more, Marcia pulled the trigger.

Pain exploded in Harper’s shoulder and she stumbled, slipping past the door but flinging herself out of the foyer where she was an open target to the far side of the split staircase, taking whatever cover she could in the carved railing and spindles.

Marcia stepped into the foyer, blood staining her sweater, her face white, her expression deadly. Narrowing her eyes, her arm no longer steady, she took aim.

Bang!

Another shot.

Two spindles next to Harper burst, spraying her with splintered wood chips as she climbed.

Eyes trained on Harper, Marcia dashed to the opposite staircase and pointed the gun upward and across the foyer as Harper scrambled up the stairs.

Bang!

Glass and crystal exploded and the chandelier rocked, sending a shower of glass to crash on the marble floor below.

Harper didn’t wait for the next shot. She raced up the final steps of the staircase and ran through the hallway to the stairs leading ever upward. She heard Marcia running behind her but there was nowhere to go but up.

Bleeding, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet, she forced herself forward.

Marcia had only one shot left. The revolver had six chambers. And Harper had counted five shots. But who was to say, her stepmother, having planned this for years, couldn’t have more bullets?

“You can’t get away!” Marcia called after her, but her voice wasn’t as strong as it had been and she was breathing hard as she climbed the stairs. “You’re doomed up there, Harper! There’s no way out.”

“Screw you!” she yelled back, hoping that Marcia would take another wild shot to even the playing field.

With each step her horror, fear, and anger prodded her on. Marcia had killed everyone she loved. The bitch deserved to die and to die a horrible, excruciating death.

And what about her father? Bruce Reed had to have known or suspected something. He couldn’t be as naïve as Marcia had said.

Heartsick, her hip aching, her shoulder throbbing, she slipped into her room and reached into the sleeping bag for Evan’s knife. Blood was running down her arm now, sticky and wet. She ignored it. What sweet vengeance it would be to slit Marcia’s throat with the knife owned by the stepson she’d killed.

She heard the steady, slow sound of Marcia’s footsteps still below.

Harper slid out of the room, leaving the door open, silently inviting her stepmother into the room, hoping the path of blood would direct her within. Then, hiding in the darkened curved staircase, she would get the jump on her.

Hardly daring to breathe, she hid in the shadows and saw the top of Marcia’s head appear as she reached the landing.

Please, please, please.

Harper’s grip on the knife tightened.

She counted her heartbeats, waiting.

Marcia paused on the landing, pushed open the door, and . . . snapped on the light.

A slash of illumination brightened the hallway, and Marcia caught a glimpse of the blood drops moving upward, so much that the trail was hardly interrupted.

She raised her weapon.

Crap!