“They’re here,” Richard said. “Time is almost up. What’s it gonna be?”
“I’ll never give him up—he’s mine!” He redirected the end of the gun to the front door; his hands trembling uncontrollably, sweat and tears dripping down his face.
The front door handle started to turn noisily. Peter, still aiming the gun, eyes wide with terror, watched the door like a hawk. Then silence. He glimpsed at the window, clearly too afraid to draw the curtains. Breathing loudly, the gun shaking in his grip, he began to turn his attention back to Richard. Just as he did, the sound of footsteps from the kitchen caused Peter to turn suddenly.
Peter fired the shotgun.
The noise echoed around the living room, almost deafening Richard, drowning the baby’s howls. He had never before heard such an awful, ear-piercing sound.
Hands covering his ears, he could see Peter, on both knees, still holding the smoking shotgun, peering down at the figure sprawled out on the floor. The kitchen doorway, the walls, and the baby’s cot were sprayed in blood. Still in a state of shock, with his ears ringing, Richard edged closer. To his horror, the figure belonged to a woman.
Peter’s sister.
Rocking gently back and forth as he watched the blood seep from her chest, Peter wept hysterically, mumbling something inaudible. Richard tried to listen but his ears had still not recovered from the deafening gunfire. He could see the baby, red-faced from sobbing, with specks of blood across his white blanket.
“Take him,” Peter said faintly, his words buried in tears, his eyes still staring down at his sister’s motionless body. “Just take him home.”
Richard’s stomach began to turn; a mix of excitement and uncertainty bubbled up inside him. Had he just heard the words he had fought so hard to hear all night? Or was it just his ringing ears playing tricks? He couldn’t be sure.
“I’m sorry,” Peter sobbed. But Richard was uncertain if he was referring to him, or his sister. “I’m sorry for everything.” He sniffed loudly. “Take him away from here. Take him home with you.”
Not taking Peter’s sudden change of heart for granted, he marched over to the cot, reached in, and pulled the baby out, still wrapped tightly in the blanket. Not looking at Peter, and with the child clutched tightly to his chest, he started carefully for the kitchen, praying that Peter wouldn’t take back the gesture. He entered the kitchen and headed for the wide-open back door; his journey in tunnel vision, his focus on the strong, blinding light beaming in from outside. Stepping out onto the stone pathway, the sunlight hurting his eyes, he fast-walked down the long, overgrown driveway toward his parked car.
Not looking back for anything.
Not even when he heard the loud shotgun fire again from inside the house.
Nothing could distract him.
His only focus was getting as far away from this God-awful place as possible.
Reaching the car, he carefully placed the baby onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and with one hand holding the baby down, he drove off slowly down the narrow lane.
When Richard had arrived a safe distance from the cottage, he glanced down at the baby. Little Dean had stopped crying and was smiling up at him. Richard returned a smile, noticing his deep blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair.
But as he joined the main road, back to civilization, back to reality, Richard’s smile turned to tears. Whether they were tears of joy or sadness he couldn’t be sure.
All he knew was that he had a young child in his passenger seat, a broken jaw—and an unbelievable story to tell.
And a skeptical wife was the last thing on his mind.
Epilogue