“And then I saw him in the doorway. It was dark, but he was darker, and I knew it was too late to call anyone.” Her breath came in agitated pants. It was all Ben could do to stay five feet away and let Faith’s sister comfort her. “I told you I keep my gun under the extra pillow at night.”
All he could do was nod again. His entire body seemed to be locked tight, absolutely rigid. All he saw was Faith, her blue eyes dark with remembered fear. He had his back to Don, and Gray and Charlotte were no more than blurs on the periphery of his awareness.
“I pulled it out and lunged to turn on the lamp. He was rushing forward, a knife in his hand. He was almost at the bed …”
Charlotte made a soft sound of distress. Gray jerked, breaking Ben’s concentration.
Faith was hunched as small as she could make herself, her gaze still pinned to Ben’s as if she couldn’t look away. “I pulled the trigger,” she finished, barely audible. “Twice. Or … or three times. I don’t remember.” The blankness was coming back into her eyes, shock tugging her back under. “I saw … blood. He … he staggered and dropped down.”
“What did you do then?” Ben asked quietly. His hands, he realized, were balled into fists at his side. He could only imagine what her father was thinking and feeling.
“I screamed and scrambled off the far side of the bed. I fell down. I looked under the bed and I could see him on the other side.”
“Your gun?”
“It was still in my hand.”
“All right,” he said. “Then what?”
“I pushed myself to my feet and made myself circle the bed. I was holding the gun. You know. But my hands were shaking so much, I could see it wavering up and down.”
God.
“Did you touch him?”
She shook her head. “I could see his face….” What little color she’d had disappeared, just like that, and suddenly she sprang up. “I’ve got to … Got to …” She clapped a hand to her mouth and fled.
Char raced after her.
“Couldn’t this have waited?” Gray asked.
Ben looked at him. “You know it can’t.”
He knew he hadn’t succeeded in hiding everything he felt. Nobody was that good. Gray studied him for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgment.
None of the three men said another word. Five minutes passed before the two women returned, Faith leaning on her sister. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and let herself be settled on the couch again, the comforter wrapped around her.
Without prompting, Faith resumed her tale. “I edged out of the room, even though I wanted the phone on the bedside table. I was afraid to get that close to him. I knew he was dead, but … I guess part of me still thought he’d wake up and grab me. Dumb.”
“Not dumb. Smart. He could have been faking it. Getting away, calling the police, that was smart.”
After a minute she nodded, although Ben doubted she was convinced.
Her voice was grave now, and small, like a child telling a story about something so bewildering and horrific she didn’t really understand it herself. “I ran downstairs. I fell the last few steps.” Faith paused. “I suppose I’ll have bruises. I can’t feel anything right now.”
“Did you call from the kitchen?”
She shook her head. “Dad was yelling my name and I went to the living room. I told him what I’d done and he said he’d call, but I thought I should do it. And then I waited here until there were knocks on the back door and someone yelling, ‘Police.’”
“The shots are what woke me,” her father said, and Ben turned so he could see him. “And Faith screaming.” He shuddered, not surprisingly. There was a lot of that going on tonight. “I reached for the phone and managed to knock it to the floor. By the time I got out of bed and found it, Faith had rushed in here.” He looked at his daughter. “I took the gun from her. I guess you’ll find my fingerprints on it, too. But the way her hand was shaking …”
Ben had already spotted the Colt, lying on the bedside table. “Did you take it by the barrel or by the grip?”
“Ah …” Don mimicked reaching out, and they established that he had never held it by the grip or touched the trigger.
Ben turned back to Faith. “Did you see that it was your ex-husband before you shot him?”
“Yes.”
“How was he holding the knife when he came at you?”
She stared at him.
He took the TV remote from the bedside table and demonstrated the two choices, blade pointing up, as Hardesty had undoubtedly held it when he’d sliced Charlotte, or down, with the clear intention of stabbing from above.
Gray moved to lay a big hand on his fiancée’s shoulder. He didn’t like the memory of what that knife had done to her.
“Down,” Faith said, lifting her hand. “He was going to stab me.”
“You did what you had to do,” Ben told her, as calmly as he could. “You’d be dead if you hadn’t shot him.”
Unbelievably, she began to shake her head and kept shaking it as if she couldn’t stop. “I don’t know. Once I turned the light on he must have seen that I had a gun, and that’s when he rushed forward so fast. Before that, he might’ve meant only to scare me.”
“You don’t believe that,” Ben said incredulously over the voices of everyone else’s protestations. Her face was still so white, he stepped forward and laid the back of his hand on her cheek. “You’re cold again.”
Her head was still shaking like a pendulum slowing but far from run down, and she’d started to rock. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “How can I know?” Her gaze lifted to his. “He’s dead? I really killed him?”
“He’s dead, Faith. But you have nothing to be sorry for.” He crouched in front of her and laid a hand on her knee. “Nothing. Remember how close he came to killing you before you divorced him.”
“But he was angry….”
“Remember what he did to Charlotte.”
The rocking was becoming more pronounced. “He might have been …”
“Damn it, no!” His sharpness had them all staring. Faith quit rocking. “He was angry this time, too. He came to kill you, Faith. You saved your life, and maybe your father’s, too.”
He could tell she hadn’t considered what Hardesty would have done if Don Russell had confronted him when he came down the stairs.
As if the words were wrenched from her, she said, “I never really believed …”
“You’d
