Scandal - COMPLETED

Chapter Forty-Two

The blood drained from my face as I stared down the barrel of the gun, leaving me light-headed and dizzy. At the other end of that barrel sat a small iron ball. Only the twitch of a finger separated me from life and death.

Two days ago, I'd been faced with this same dilemma. The difference was that two days ago, I didn't have a chance to recognize the true danger for what it was. Between the screams, the terror, the flying bodies, and my desperation to escape, there simply wasn't time for me to stare my own mortality down. It was only afterward that I realized how close I'd come.

Now, however, it felt like I had all the time in the world to contemplate life and death, to look back on my years in this world with eyes wide open. There was so much I regretted. So much I wish I had done differently. At least I'd told John and Henry I loved them. If I was to leave this world today, that was one regret I wouldn't be taking with me.

The words my father had spoken still rang in my ears, demanding attention, but it was difficult to focus on them over the roaring of my pulse. Shock threatened, but shock was a luxury I couldn't afford right now. Later – if there was a later – I could break down. John and Henry were bound to their chairs, and I needed to be present in this moment with them. To help them in whatever way I could.

I blinked and forced my gaze away from the pistol. Father met my eyes with a look that dared me to ignore his order. He looked at me as though he might truly shoot me for disobeying it. He looked like he wanted to shoot me.

Unable to tear my eyes away from his, I turned my body only enough to reach out and fumble blindly for the latch. It rattled as I secured it with trembling fingers.

"I was hoping you would join us," Father said, conversationally, as if he wasn't holding me at gunpoint.

"Lower your weapon," John said. "It's not like you're actually going to shoot her." His voice was even more cultured and calm than my father's.

Nothing to see here. Nothing to worry about. Just three individuals engaging in some light, idle chatter.

I almost laughed, but I choked it down, knowing it would come out hysterical.

My father continued to point the gun at me, unwavering, and my brief bout of humor fled as fear took hold. Just last month I read an article in The Times that had gone into great detail about murder statistics. Specifically, the murders of women within the city. Most of those killed weren't stabbed in the night by some unknown assailant, but beaten to death or strangled by their husbands. Or an older brother. Or a former lover. Or a father.

They weren't killed by strangers; they were murdered by the men they knew.

Only afterward did the investigating constables learn of the years of abuse that had preceded the deaths of those women, discovered that the violence against them had steadily increased until finally, one day, their abusers went too far.

Was I about to join their ranks? Another faceless, nameless woman fallen victim to the rage of men?

"Fine, then. Shoot her," John said, somehow managing a gallic shrug even while tied up.

I whipped my head around, staring at him with wide eyes. What game was he playing by saying something like that? Did he mean to make my father think that he cared nothing for me in the hopes that it would somehow make him less likely to shoot me? Or did he say it because he knew my father would ignore the order just to spite him? Either way, risking my life on it?

"John," Henry ground out, putting more disapproval in that one word than I had ever heard him speak.

For one breathless moment, it looked like Father was considering whether or not to pull the trigger. But then he glanced away from me, toward my husband, and his expression shifted into stubborn refusal as he lowered the gun.