The look of betrayal in Conrad’s eyes would be something she’d remember forever. The way he fell to his knees, dropping the gun.
Blood sputtered from his lips as Stella’s hand shook with the gun in her grip. She hurried across the room to Ashton. He still had his gun aimed at Conrad until he slumped over with his eyes closed.
Avery was standing behind Ashton, with her hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide with shock.
Ashton lowered his weapon and pulled out his phone, dialing and pressing it against his ear. “We need an ambulance,” he growled into the phone as he turned to stare into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Yes, this is FBI Special Agent Ashton Bennett, and we need several ambulances. Two officers are down, along with a civilian and the perpetrator. Detective Morrison is en route.”
Stella dropped to her knees as her legs finally gave out. Tears slid down her cheeks as everything that had just happened finally registered. Conrad was a killer. Her brother was lying to her, and Ashton had almost died.
She wiped the tears from her eyes and glanced toward Conrad just as he produced another gun and lifted it in Ashton’s direction.
“No!” Avery screamed.
Without a second thought, Stella lifted her gun and fired.
Ashton spun around just as police officers swarmed the warehouse.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands over your head.” Guns were pointed in every direction in chaotic fashion.
24
Stella
The presence of the police and paramedics thwarted her art exhibit. Not that Stella would have sold any of her art tonight. She still couldn’t get over her brother’s involvement. Her life was one big lie. Ashton was across the room talking to officers and babysitting some of the forensic guys.
“Ms. Michaels, can you come here?” Detective Morrison called out from across the room.
Stella shrugged off the blanket that someone had placed on her shoulders and crossed the room. Her entire body was numb. This was a dream. A stupid bad dream.
Detective Morrison gestured to one of her paintings, which she’d tucked away with no intention of selling. One of the crime scene pieces she’d forgotten to take home and store with the others in her basement.
“Care to explain this?” he asked.
“I have dreams, and when I wake up, I paint.” She gestured to the painting. “That was a result after a nap I took in the back office three weeks ago.”
“Are you aware it depicts a crime scene?”
“Most of my dreams do. It’s this thing I’ve been doing since I was a kid.”
She gestured to the woman in red she’d painted. “She isn’t your killer.”
“She’s standing over the body with a gun,” he said.
She gestured to the dead guy on the floor. “He broke into her house with intent to kill her after he robbed the place. He shot first, only he missed. She didn’t.”
“Those facts weren’t in the paper.”
She shrugged. “Like I said, I saw it in my dream.”
“It took us two weeks to piece the events of that night together. They eventually found the bullet lodged into the wall behind a picture. You could have called and saved us a lot of time.”
“Would you have believed me?” she asked.
“Probably not, but do me a favor and let me know the next time you have another dream like these and end up painting it.”
