As Eve reached the top of the stairs, turned Singer around to restrain him, Elinor strode down the corridor to the right. “Take your hands off my son. Get out of my house.” She lifted the gun in her hand and fired. The bullet pinged off Eve’s topper. The impact—a solid punch with a sledgehammer—jerked her back, spun her to the left. As she reached for her own weapon, Roarke flew up the stairs. The second bullet struck closer to her hip. The pain stole her breath, had the edges of her vision blurring. Eve set her teeth, held her weapon steady. “
The old bitch shoots Eve
