I swallowed.
Should I help her?
I looked at Evans's body, then back at Maria.
Why?
How?
It made no sense, but I couldn't stop to think about that. Couldn't stop to help her, either. I needed to get out of there.
Chapter Sixty-four
I kicked Maria's gun out the door while checking back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn't getting up.
"Olivia."
Gabriel came around the corner, Chandler's big .45 in hand. I gave Maria's pistol another kick and he saw it. He bent to scoop it up.
"Don't!" I said. "It was used on Evans. I don't want to leave it where--"
He lifted it by the barrel.
"Or I could have done that."
He caught my arm and tugged me into the living room as he whispered, "Shhh. The wife and housekeeper are still here."
"We don't need to worry about the housekeeper. I..." I glanced down at the gun in my hands and swallowed. "I shot her. I think she's dead. Or dying."
He shot me a look. Quizzical. Confused.
"Okay..." he said slowly. He straightened. "We'll handle this. We'll say that Evans shot himself, and she walked in--"
"No, she shot Evans."
Full-blown "Huh?" on his face now, and I realized that whatever he'd seen from his post, it wasn't enough to understand what had happened. That's why he'd been bewildered when I said I'd shot the housekeeper. He didn't know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.
Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn't seem to be running. Just heading this way.
Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.
He started shoving me toward the sofa. "Get behind it. I'll handle this."
"Don't hurt--"
I barely got the words out before his frown killed the rest in my throat. Whatever he meant by "handling it," his plan did not involve hurting Evans's innocent wife. I should have known that.
The footsteps continued. He pushed me toward the sofa. I grabbed his wrist and hauled him along behind me.
"I can't--" he began.
Now I tightened my grip, not looking back, just pulling him with me until we were at the sofa. It rested a few feet from the wall. I nudged him in first.
"I won't--" he whispered.
I gave him a shove.
What he'd been trying to say was that he wouldn't fit. Which wasn't exactly true. He could crouch, very awkwardly, behind it, with me beside him. It was the "very awkward part" that bothered him, judging by his glower as I wedged in. Or the indignity of hiding from an elderly woman.