Free Shopping for a Billionaire 4 by Julia Kent Page B

wrapping around me from the back as one thought fills my mind:
    Death by chocolate is very, very real.
    You take first-aid classes and learn the Heimlich maneuver and wrap your arms around a dummy and pull toward you. You practice on another human being without hurting them. In the seconds between life and death in real life, though, you don’t realize how hard you have to pull, the force it takes to dislodge an errant chocolate caramel, or the panic that you feel as blood’s cut off from your brain, your entire life in the hands of the baby sister who used to break the heads off your Barbies and roast them on a stick in the fire in the wood stove.
    If I’m going to die, there’s a certain irony that it’s like this and not from a bee sting.
    Amy, fortunately, turns out to be as much a hero as Declan, and with one rib-cracking yank the chocolate climbs up my throat, scrapes against the back of my tongue, bounces off the top of my mouth, and flies right into Chuckles’ eye, sending him sprawling off the back of the couch and into a wastebasket next to the front door.
    A hole in one.
    Whoop! I inhale so long and hard it’s like the sound a hurt toddler makes as they gear up for a big old outraged cry. Chuckles beats me to it, scratching his way out of the trash can and howling with outrage. 
    “My God, Shannon, are you okay?” Mom asks, rushing over with a glass of water.
    Everyone ignores Chuckles. He marches over to the front door and begins peeing in Mom’s purse. My throat is raw and I can’t say anything, but a weird hitching sound comes out of me, tears rolling down my face as sweet, blessed air makes its way where the frozen caramel just perched.
    “Eye,” is all I can manage, pointing at the cat, who is now peeing on Amy’s shoe. The new Manolo knockoff.
    Amy’s studying her hands like they’re an Oscar statue. “I can’t believe I did that,” she whispers. Mom gives her a huge hug and they all watch me, Amanda behind me, her hand on my back with a supportive touch.
    Normal respiration resumes. By the time I’m okay, Chuckles has moved on to peeing on a plant, a doorstop painted like a bunny, and someone’s stray Target bag filled with dish soap. Equal opportunity sprayer, he is.
    He hates everyone equally.
    “Jessica Coffin made you choke!” Amanda declares, trying to be funny. She fails.
    “Why did you shout her name?” I ask. The words make sense to me, but everyone acts like I just spoke in Farsi.
    Somehow, Amy understands what I’m asking and repeats it.
    Mom frowns. “We can talk about that later.”
    “Now,” I croak.
    “Okay, well…” She really doesn’t want to say this. “When you’re recovered.”
    I drink all the water in the glass she’s given me, heart slowing down. “Thank you,” I say to Amy with as much gratitude as my damaged voice can muster.
    “Anytime.”
    “This makes up for the Barbie,” I say in a shorthand only siblings understand.
    “Finally!” She throws her hand up like an Olympian winning a gold medal. “It only took fifteen years and near-death!”
    “That was my favorite Barbie,” I rasp. We share a smile. I inhale deeply and turn to Mom.
    “Jessica Coffin?”
    Amanda points at Mom. “You’re right! Perfect!” The two share a look that goes right over my head.
    “Care to share?”
    “She’s the hoity-toity gossip queen. If anyone knows what happened to Elena, it’s her. Or her Mom. They both use gossip like it’s currency.”
    My throat nearly closes up again with the implications of what they’re saying. “You want me to go and see Jessica Coffin to pick her brain for the answer to how Declan’s mother’s death is connected to his dumping me?”
    All three of them nod.
    “You are all in a folie a deux. A tres,” I amend, because all three of them are nuts.
    “What’s that?” Amy asks.
    “It’s French for ‘batpoop crazy,’” Mom explains.
    “You speak French?”
    “No. But you’re not the first person to use that