Colin burst through the doors of the emergency room, his pulse hammering in his throat as he raced to the information desk, Elle by his side. The past and the present slammed into him in punishing jolts with each football-memories of his father's murder mixed cruelly with this. His oldest brother, the one who'd looked out for him, helped him stay sober when he first got clean, helped raise him...Michael had been shot in the chest and rushed to the hospital. They had no clue what his condition was, or if he was even alive.

Colin choked back that horrific thought as he stopped short at the desk, words tumbling out in a traffic jam. "Michael Sloan. He was just brought in. I'm his brother. How is he?"

The brunette in pink scrubs and wireframe gla.s.ses looked up and nodded. "Give me just a minute."

He turned to Elle, taking deep, sharp breaths, but they barely seemed enough to fill his mouth, let alone his lungs. "Elle," he said in a whisper. He couldn't say anything else. If he did, he would break.

Her lower lip quivered, and she looked like she was trying to form the words he'll be okay, but instead, tears slid down her cheeks and she clasped her hand to her mouth. They'd been in bed asleep when Sophie called fifteen minutes ago, hysterical with the news. Elle's son Alex was at a friend's house, and they'd uncharacteristically slept in until nine a.m., when they were greeted by a screeching phone and sobs on the other end.

Sophie and Ryan were on their way. Shannon and Brent, too, and their grandparents as well. But Elle lived closest, so they'd arrived first. Colin dragged a hand through his hair, trying to breathe, to ignore the beeping of machines, the clatter of equipment, the hushed conversations between nurses and doctors circling nearby, and the faces of all the other people waiting in the emergency room.

"Elle," he croaked out again, as the woman at the desk toggled through her computer screen.

She wrapped her arms around him. "He's going to be okay."

But she didn't sound like she believed it.

Resting his chin atop her head, because he felt like he might topple over if he let go, he turned back to the woman at the desk. "Do you know where he is? Is he in surgery? What's going on?"

The woman held up a finger. "One minute."

"G.o.ddammit," he muttered. "Elle, is your mom working?" Colin asked, desperation coloring his tone. "Can she find out something?"

Elle shook her head. "She's not an ER nurse, but I can try to find her."

"Wait." Colin snapped his gaze in the direction of the woman in pink scrubs. "Sloan, you said?"

Colin let go of Elle and gripped the counter. "Yes. Michael Sloan. What's going on?"

She opened her mouth to speak, when Colin spotted John Winston rounding the corner. His eyes were downcast, his arm was wrapped around Annalise, and he looked like someone had died.

Colin's ears rang, and he heard nothing but the screaming in his own head.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.

Thirty minutes ago Silver gleamed on concrete-two, maybe three feet away from her next to the wheel of a car-like a beacon.

A harsh pant came from Charlie, then the dragging sound of unsteady feet across pavement.

Her hands were covered in Michael's blood, her vision was blurred from her own torrential tears, and her pulse thundered in her brain.

But Michael's heart still beat, and in an instant, her choices crystallized into just one.

She lunged across Michael for the gun, rose to her feet, and spun around.

"I'm not done," the man seethed, as he rose to his full height, his gun in his uninjured right hand. "You and your white box comment this morning at the diner," he snarled. "You know nothing about my brother. Nothing about how he was buried."

She had no clue what he meant, and she didn't care. She was nothing but nerves. She'd never held a gun and had certainly never fired one. She didn't know how to hit the side of a barn, let alone the heart of a man. But as he lifted his arm, her focus narrowed, and her mind sharpened.

Adrenaline bathed her brain in pinpoint clarity. She was alive, she was unhurt, and she was going to be faster than the man who wanted to kill her then finish off Michael.

As she raised her weapon, she realized she knew precisely what to do.

Like taking a picture.

Point. Aim.

Shoot.

The bullet flew.

And she prayed. And hoped. And wished.

Charlie crumpled over, grabbing his belly where she'd hit him.

Seconds later, the ambulance screeched to a stop, the medics poured out, and she was on the way to the hospital with her love losing his hold on life.

Now He'd died in the emergency room twenty minutes later. Annalise had shot him in the stomach, the bullet nicking an artery and tearing through his intestines, the doctors had said. No time to question Charlie Stravinsky-no chance for a deathbed confession, but one was hardly needed.

His confession had been made when he'd arrived at Michael's building, ready to kill.

John had already put most of the pieces together that morning with the federal agent, and he needed to talk to Annalise to learn what had gone down in the parking garage. She could barely speak, though. Her hands were still shaking, and all she'd managed to say were the barest of details. There would be time enough for that later. After she'd been checked over and cleaned up, he walked her to the ER waiting room where he was rushed by family members-Colin and Elle first.

"What's going on?" Colin asked, grabbing his arm.

"He's in surgery. That's all I know," John said, wishing he had more news. The doctors didn't know. The nurses hadn't supplied any more details. That was standard practice for this kind of trauma. Get the patient in the OR and try to save a life if they could.

Colin's shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "Okay. But how does it look? Can't we get any more information?" Colin implored, his eyes wide with the plea.

John shook his head. "They don't have any other details to give. As soon as he arrived, he was rushed to the OR. They're probably trying to figure out the extent of the damage. If-"

"If they can save him?" Colin cut in.

John nodded. "Yes. That's what they're trying to do."

Then an animalistic cry ripped from the throat of the woman next to him, and Annalise slipped from his arms, crumbling to the floor. In an instant, Elle gripped her, wrapped her arms around her, and ushered her away.

Eighteen years ago He lay on the driveway, his eyes fluttering closed, and Thomas knew this was the end. He could no longer move his lips to utter the word help. The night seemed to wink on and off, the stars in the sky coming in and out of focus and then fading. His body felt light, as if it were floating away from him.

The agonizing pain had ebbed, and as he lay on the asphalt by his home, his last thoughts were of his children. How much he loved them. How much he could continue to love them for the rest of time...here in this world, or in the next one.

And as the earth turned dark, he hoped he wouldn't see them again for a long, long time...

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN.

Her head was in her hands.

"I killed a man," she whispered barrenly. "And the man I love is dying."

Doubled over in shock and consumed with the sharp, cold sensation of impending grief, Annalise sat on the hard wooden bench in the hospital's chapel.

Elle, who she'd just met today, stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. Annalise thought she must be the one who'd brought her here from the emergency room an hour ago. Or was it minutes ago? She hardly knew anything anymore, except that all her fears were on the cusp of turning true. The prospect of Michael dying hurt so much-an ache in her bones that would never depart.

"You did what you had to do," Elle said, her voice strong as she ran her fingers through Annalise's hair.

"I did," she choked out, needing the rea.s.surance. She had no regrets over picking up the gun and firing. She only hoped it had been enough to save Michael. But he'd been barely hanging on during the ride to the hospital. She'd hardy even been able to hear the words the paramedics barked when they gave him an IV and fought to keep him alive as he bled, and bled, and bled. The ambulance had seemed to fly at the speed of light, confirmation of how tenuous his hold on life was.

Oh G.o.d.

She couldn't imagine losing him. Couldn't conceive of burying him. Her chest heaved, and she coughed, choking on the pain.

Now, he was in the operating room and no one knew if the doctors could even save him. There was a bullet in his body. Near his heart.

The door creaked, and Annalise lifted her gaze as a platinum blonde rushed toward them-Sophie, the one who'd arranged for her to come to Vegas for a photo shoot.

"Hi. I'll be ready for your shoot tomorrow," Annalise said, her voice flat. She wasn't sure why she'd said that. Maybe because anything else would hollow her out.

Sophie gave her a look like she was crazy as she kneeled by her side and placed a hand on her thigh. "I'm not here to ask about work. Are you okay, sweetie?"

Annalise shook her head. "No. I don't know. I killed a man and Michael is dying," she repeated, because those twin moments of her life felt like everything. Her before, her after, her now.

"You saved a life," Sophie said, reaching for her hand. "Come on, now. You need to be strong for Michael. You need to be as strong as you can be."

Strong? What was that? Did she even know what strength was anymore? Did she know anything? Her world had been twisted inside out, shaken cruelly by the hand of Fate, and now Michael was- She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the word dying.

"Annalise," Sophie said, her voice gentle but firm. "You're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to be terrified. But you're not allowed to think negative thoughts right now. Michael is in surgery, and they are fighting to save his life. We need to be there in the OR waiting room for whenever the doctors come out. Not here." Sophie glanced around the chapel. It was warm and comforting, but it was a hiding place in some ways. "Come now. You can do this."

Sophie held one hand, and Elle took the other. Annalise was keenly aware that the three women in this chapel were in love with three brothers, and the other two were there to help her be tough for the brother that needed her. The man she loved.

She took a breath, inhaling hope and letting go of all else.

There was no room for thoughts of that killer. There was no room for hate, for vengeance, or for cold, heartless enemies.

There was only room for love. She would do everything to send her love to Michael, and her strength to the doctors working on him. She left the chapel, Elle and Sophie leading her to join the rest of the family in the OR waiting room.

They waited and they waited and they waited.

For an hour.

Then another.

Then for nearly one more.

Until at last, a woman in green scrubs pushed open the door, and surveyed the scene. She had lines around her blue eyes, and strong cheekbones. "I'm Doctor Brooks. Are you the family of Michael Sloan?"

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.

Everyone stood.

Annalise, Elle, Sophie. Ryan, Colin, Shannon, and Brent, his arm protectively around his pregnant wife. The grandparents. Even the detective had stayed, and Michael's friend Mindy had joined the vigil.

Collectively holding their breath, crossing their fingers, and praying to whoever listened, they waited for the surgeon to speak again.

"It was touch-and-go there for a while. We didn't know where the bullet hit him until we opened up his chest. And he lost a lot of blood," the doctor said, her tone measured and even. Annalise was poised on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, every muscle strung tight, waiting, wanting, aching for answers. "Turns out he was shot in the spleen. We got lucky."

Lucky.

Oh G.o.d, never had a word been more beautiful.

Never had anyone said such a perfect word. Lucky was good.

"We were able to remove his spleen, and he'll be able to live a normal life without it."

"Oh my G.o.d. He's really alive?" Annalise asked in a breathless rush, desperately needing a second confirmation.

The surgeon smiled and nodded. "Yes. Very much so."

"Can we see him?" The question came from Michael's grandmother.

The doctor shook her head. "He's in recovery now. He hasn't even woken up yet."

Two hours later, a nurse said he was asking for Annalise. She brought her hand to her heart, then turned and embraced Elle and Sophie. "Thank G.o.d," she whispered, her voice breaking as it had in the chapel with them, but this time for a much happier reason.