Chapter 8: The Blast

The shockwave hits the house like a fist.

Glass explodes inward from the front windows.

I'm thrown against the doorframe, and my ears fill with a high, flat whine.

Damien is on the stoop.

He's standing in the open, facing the fire, with his back to the shattered window above him.

A second window above his head cracks down its length.

"Damien!"

I can't hear my own voice.

I lunge, grab a fistful of his suit jacket, and haul.

We hit the hall floor together.

The window comes down where he was standing, a sheet of glass breaking across the stone.

He's on top of me, his arm over my head, his breath hot against my hair.

"Are you hurt?" he says.

I read it off his mouth.

"No. Get off. Let me up."

He rolls away.

I'm on my knees before the whine in my ears settles.

Then I hear the screaming.

The housekeeper is on the floor by the staircase.

Her gray cardigan is dark and wet along one sleeve.

A long shard of glass sticks out of her forearm, and blood is pumping, bright and fast, across the marble.

"I've got her," I say.

Nobody else moves.

I drop beside her and take her wrist.

"Look at me. What's your name?"

"Margaret, I think. I don't..."

"Margaret, stay with me."

I rip the sleeve off my own scrubs jacket and wrap it above the wound.

I pull it tight.

She cries out.

"I know. I'm sorry. Damien, give me your tie."

He's already pulling it loose.

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