Читать книгу Silent Guardian - Mallory Kane - Страница 6

The bright winter sun sent a pale rainbow of color through the sheer curtains.

The facets of a diamond solitaire sparkled with prisms of light, almost overpowering the hard blue glint that shone from the barrel of the 9mm Glock aimed at her head.

“No!” he cried. The breakfast tray in his hands tumbled slowly, silently to the floor as he dived toward the bed.

But no matter how fast he was, the bullet was faster. It happened as if in slow motion—her sad brown eyes meeting his, her hand turning—pointing the barrel of the gun at him, the tears glistening on her pale cheeks like the diamond on her left ring finger.

He reached out just as the gun’s report echoed in his ears. The bullet stopped him in his tracks. Yet he still struggled to get to her, to somehow stop her. His bare feet slipped in juice, in coffee, in blood.

As he hit the bed and grabbed at her arm the second shot rang out, and her blood spattered his face and hands, mingling with his own.

Geoffrey Archer opened his eyes to darkness and nauseating, aching loss. He kicked away the sweat-soaked sheets and vaulted up, crossing the room in two long strides. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, then leaned his forearms against the lavatory and hung his head, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Finally, he straightened, pushing his hair back with his hands. His right hand cramped, and burning pain shot through his fingers and up his wrist.

His legacy from his wife’s suicide.

He massaged his wrist and flexed his fingers as he stepped to the window and threw back the drapes. The red and purple stain on the eastern sky reminded him of that last morning and his dream.

He’d been too slow. He was always too slow.