Her grip on my throat loosened, and she stumbled backward, holding her temple.

I gasped for air, rolling over to my knees.

I scrambled across the floor toward the dark corner where her gun had slid.

My hands swept across the cold floor in the darkness.

Where was it?

“Marcus!” Evelyn screamed again, her voice cracking with panic.

I heard the heavy thud of footsteps running back inside the building.

“Evelyn? What’s happening?” Marcus’s voice echoed from the hallway above.

My fingers finally brushed against the cold, smooth metal of the silver pistol.

I grabbed it, turning around just as Evelyn recovered her footing.

She saw the gun in my hand and froze.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her face pale.

The sound of Marcus’s heavy boots pounded down the wooden stairs.

“Evelyn, the car is—”

Marcus stopped dead on the bottom step, staring at the scene before him.

I stood in the center of the cellar, the pistol pointed directly at Marcus’s chest.

My hands shook, but I kept my aim steady.

“Get back,” I said, my voice hoarse from the chokehold. “Both of you.”