Trey stopped, held up a hand. I stopped too. I heard voices then, muffled but close. Quint and Portia.
“—but bringing them to the set wasn’t enough,” she said, “oh no, you had to bring them here too!”
“I didn’t have a choice! They wanted—”
“I don’t care what they want! They’re lowlife scum! And there you were prancing around, kowtowing to them like they were royalty!”
“Listen, just put down the gun—”
“Shut up!”
We were at the edge of the woods, the stone-paved garden path leading to the rear entrance of the ruins, each step slick with wet moss. The rain had grown harder, a steady patter. Trey didn’t seem to notice. Every ounce of his attention was directed beyond the brick walls to where Portia and Quint were arguing.
“Let me fix this,” Quint pleaded. “I fixed it last time, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t fix a damn thing. Nicky didn’t go to jail, did he?”
“That was Macklin’s fault, not mine!”
“No, it’s never your fault, is it? Whose fault is it that you started gambling again, you want to explain that one?”
“If you’d just listen—”
“Now we’re back where we were four years ago—with me scrambling to clean up your mess.”
I got a chill. Up ahead, Trey shot me a questioning look over his shoulder, brow furrowed. I nodded to let him know I’d heard. Yes, Quint had “fixed” things. And I knew what that meant, knew it as surely as the sun was rising. Trey knew it too. I watched him drop his shoulders, face forward again.
“Things are different this time!” Quint’s voice was insistent. “Addison can be eliminated. There isn’t a jury in the world that would let Nicky go after a second wife kicks the bucket. Everybody thinks he relapsed—hearing gunshots, overdosing himself, trying to set a barn on fire. And then I could retain control of his estate and—”
“What about Oliver?”
“He won’t talk—his fingerprints are all over the financials, and he knows it.” Quint’s voice turned desperate. “Look, I learned my lesson. You want a divorce? Done. You want off the show? Fine. I’ll rip up your contract. Just don’t do this.” His voice softened. “We’re a team.”
“We were a team. Then you started screwing Jessica instead of working her!”
“That was working her!”
“No, that was you being you. And I’m tired of you.”
“Babe, listen to me, put down the gun and—”
“Get up.”
Trey moved forward. I fell in behind. The argument grew more intense—Portia threatening, Quint trying to talk her down—and I knew the protocol humming in Trey’s head: save the hostage. He’d do it even if the hostage was someone as despicable as Quint Talbot. It obliterated even his reflexive need to control and protect me. He’d smothered that back at the check-in station, when he’d handed me weapons and keys. And yet there was something predatory about him now—rain-soaked, rifle in hand, eyes narrow and focused.
Once we reached the bottom of the steps, we took cover behind the rose arbor. Through the leaves, I could see Quint on his knees, Portia with her LeMat aimed at him. She was panting and dirty and wet, her hair wild about her face, but she held the gun as steadily as Luna did, with the same merciless resolve. I remembered her pretend ineptness in the shop and cursed silently. She’d been planning to take him down even then. I could almost hear her defense: It wasn’t premeditated! I only had the gun because I was doing character research! I never planned to kill anybody!
A red blotch bloomed on Quint’s forehead, a fresh wound, and he had to keep blinking the blood and rain from his eyes. He raised his hands, palms out. “Killing me won’t stop them! They’ll come for you next!”
She laughed. “No, they won’t.”
“They will! You think that was Nicky they were gunning for at the house? No. They were there for me! And if I don’t—”
“That was me, you fucking dimwit! I’m the one who tried to kill you!”
Quint’s response was an incoherent noise of disbelief. Portia laughed again.
“With your own gun too, the Sig Sauer. Poetic justice, I decided, a lovely bit of thematic retrofitting. But killing you with Luna’s gun…well, that’s almost as beautiful. Now get back on your feet and get back to the car.”
Quint was slow on the uptake. “You were the one who shot at me?”
“Yes, babe. I was. And I’m going to do it again, this time point blank.”
“But why?”
“Because it is the only way to get out of that goddamned contract!”
Quint seemed flabbergasted. “That wasn’t my fault! They wouldn’t let me release you!”
“You should have tried harder to convince them.” She tightened her hands around the revolver. “Get up. Now!”
“And what are you going to do after you shoot me, run?” Quint’s voice grew bitter. “You couldn’t stand it. You have to be seen and heard and loved and adored. You couldn’t hide if your life depended on it.”
“I won’t need to run. I’ll claim self defense. You already killed once, and you were going to kill again, sadistic fuck that you are.”
“Nobody will buy it.”
“Oh, they’ll buy it. Because I’ll wrap it pretty as Christmas morning.”
Quint dropped his voice, begging now, but Portia wasn’t relenting. Trey pointed to the arched opening to their left, a good spot providing both cover and concealment. I nodded, and he held up three fingers, dropped to two, then one. He crossed the grass soundlessly, and I followed as he moved left of the arch. I took position on the opposite side, peered through the cracks in the brickwork at the drama playing itself out within.
Portia shook her hair from her face. She was soaking wet, her pants slathered in mud. “Get up.”
Quint’s reply was garbled. Portia cursed, her chest heaving. She obviously didn’t want to shoot him in the ruins. She had a different scenario playing out, one that involved him back at the Ferrari, but he wasn’t budging. And she was recalculating.
I glanced at Trey, who caught the question in my eyes. He nodded, positioned his weapon
