Page 73 of The Perfect Hosts

“No, you did,” Madeline manages to rasp, the words fighting their way out of her damaged throat.

“Madeline, no,” he says. “I didn’t. I would never do this to you. You’re confused.”

Her eyes dart around the darkened room. “Lucy?” she asks. Where did she go? It doesn’t matter, Madeline thinks. She’ll come back—she has to. Madeline lifts the belt from the ground beside her and pushes it into Wes’s hands.

“She’s gone. She must have run,” Wes says, running the strap of leather through his fingers. “You’re safe now. I’ll call the police.” He bends over to help Madeline to her feet. She feels light-headed, and her breath comes in ragged hitches. “But about what happened earlier,” Wes says. “Our argument. You’re not going to say anything, are you?”

Madeline looks up at her husband in disbelief. An argument? That’s what he’s calling it? That’s what he’s worried about? She’s too weary, in too much pain to press the issue. She shakes her head, and he pulls her into a tight embrace, but there is no comfort in his touch.

The curtains sway slightly, and Lucy appears from behind the fabric and puts one finger to her lips, ordering Madeline to stay quiet. In the other hand she’s holding a gun. Wes’s gun. The one that was supposed to be in the closet. She gives Lucy an imperceptible nod.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I won’t let her hurt you again. I promise,” Wes says into her ear. “God, she must really hate you, Madeline.”

“Not quite,” Lucy says from her spot in the shadows.

Wes spins around, placing his body in front of Madeline’s. “Lucy,” he says. “What the fuck? What have you done?”

“What does it look like?” Lucy asks playfully.

“Lucy, come on, now,” Wes says, his voice suddenly calm, placating. “I know you and Madeline have had a complicated relationship, but you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Lucy says. “I most definitely must do this. Now, step aside, Wes.” Madeline’s blood curdles in her veins. This is really happening.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Wes says. “You want the horses? Take them. You want money? You can have it. Turn around and go, Lucy. We won’t call the police. You have my word.”

“Oh, come on, Wes,” Lucy says. “We both know your word means shit. Now, step aside. I want to talk to my sister.”

“No,” Wes says. “No fucking way.” A sudden bang fills the air, and the wall above Wes’s right shoulder explodes in a cloud of plaster and dust. Madeline screams and covers her head with her arms.

“Lucy,” Wes pleads.

“Step aside, Wes,” Lucy orders. “This is the last time I’m going to say it.”

Wes hesitates, and Lucy begins the countdown. “Five, four—”

“Lucy—”

“Three, two—”

Wes steps aside. Of course he does. He has no weapons. All he has is a belt in his hand that will do no good here. Nor will his fists. Madeline feels naked, exposed. Skin, sinew, and bone is no match for a bullet, but she knows the bullet isn’t for her. Madeline pulls herself upright and steps forward. Now she’s the one standing in front of her husband, as if protecting him, though he doesn’t deserve it, not one bit. Madeline keeps her gaze firmly fixed on her sister’s face. The gun is aimed squarely at Madeline’s chest.

“Step aside, Madeline,” Lucy says.

“Do you really want to do this?” Madeline manages to say, her throat still painfully raw. There’s a flicker of hesitation in Lucy’s eyes.

Lucy stares straight into Madeline’s eyes, and years of hurt and whispered secrets, skinned knees and broken hearts, mothers and fathers lost and found, and laughter and tears and love and hate cross between them. Madeline braces herself for what comes next. “Duck,” Lucy orders.

Chapter 37

Lucy

The shot is wide, and instead of hitting center mass, like Lucy’s father taught her when they went deer hunting, the bullet grazes Wes’s shoulder. Madeline is on her knees, arms covering her head, trying to cocoon her baby beneath her. Thank God her sister listened to her for once. If Madeline hadn’t dropped to the floor when Lucy yelledduck, her sister would be dead. But for now, Lucy has Wes right where she wants him. He’s clutching at his wounded shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers and dripping over Madeline.

“What? Why?” Wes asks, eyes wide. Lucy almost giggles at his absolute confusion. Her sister’s husband has always been a narcissistic son of a bitch, so of course he wouldn’t be self-aware enough to understand why she has just put a bullet in him.

“Hmmm, where to begin?” Lucy says, keeping the gun pinned on him. “How about, you are an abusive fuck?”

“No, no,” Wes says. “That’s not true. Madeline, tell her that it’s not true. I never hurt you. I would never...” He begins to sidle toward the door.