An involuntary gasp leaves my lips.
Nausea overtakes my stomach, threatening revolt. This is how I die: in a filthy alley, covered in someone else’s blood, just minutes from the safety of my car.
I suck in a shaky breath, knowing with morose clarity that it very well could be my last. The gun warps in my vision, extending towards my chest like the eye of a spear. I should’ve left earlier. Should’ve asked Jackson to walk me to my car. Should’ve called a damn Uber. Should have, should have, should have…
But just like that, the barrel disappears. The gun splashes onto the concrete with a harshthunk.
What the hell?
My brain struggles to comprehend the nonsensical action, but with the weapon gone, the space opens wide between me and the threat. Awhole new danger overtakes it as a bright gaze pierces through the shadows.
Understanding dawns on my delayed faculties.
He’d been ready to defend himself against whoever was approaching. Why did he lower the weapon when he saw it was me?Was he expecting someone else? Whoever was shooting a few minutes before?
The large man is slumped against the brick wall in front of me, his dark clothes doing little to conceal the astronomical amount of blood loss seeping from his form. Wild, blue eyes tear through me like a rabid bite, stealing the breath from my lungs. They pass over me with an assessing gaze before lifting to mine once more with strained intensity.
An impasse. That’s what this is. Both of us are preparing for one to concede. My leg twitches, readying to sprint away at the drop of a hat. His hand hovers in the blood beside his weapon, a thick cough brutalizing his chest.
This is a serious predicament I’ve gotten myself into. The rational part of my brain knows that, but I can’t keep the inappropriate thought from bouncing around in my head.
Damn, he’s pretty.
I feel like an asshole the second the notion rises. What the hell is wrong with you, Cass? The man is suffering through his final moments, and you’re thinking about his bone structure?
My eyes blur and burn, forcing me to blink for the first time in minutes.
Run. You should run. My instincts clash through my vibrating body.
Unbidden, I can practically hear Mom’s voice echo through my head—”Trust your instincts, Cassy. When they tell you to run, you listen the first time.”
The hypocrisy of that statement always made some part of me rage. It wasn’t advice she’d ever heeded. I still remember all those moments I begged her to run, to pack her things, and get us out of that house, but she never could bring herself to go. She stayed forhim. No matter howmany times he hurt her, she stayed. I always promised myself that I’d be different. That I’d listen for those clanging warning bells.
So why are my legs refusing to move?
Movement snaps me back to the scene. The weight of his arm collapses in his lap. Then his eyes drift shut in disinterest, head settling against the wall. He’s giving up.
He’s just… giving up.
And instead of taking the reprieve to run somewhere far, far away, my foot slides forward into the puddle, leg moving of its own accord.
What the hell are you doing, Cassandra?
The voice in my head takes on Mom’s intonation, pitch rising in concern. Fantastic. Now I’m having conversations with make-believe-mommy in my mind.
Curiosity grows alongside my fear as I study the large man whose eyes are now pressed closed, his face carefully blank despite the soft choking sounds forcing their way from his throat every few seconds. There’s something almost beautiful about his stillness, the type that belongs to ancient sculptures in museums. Not rodent-infested alleys.
He doesn’t belong here.But neither do you.
So why am I still here?
Speculations fly through my consciousness, but one thought rises above the rest. It swims restlessly in my stomach as I eye the weapon casually lying on the ground.
I haven’t stumbled upon some helpless victim.
A helpless victim wouldn’t have his bloody hand wrapped around the trigger of a gun. Normal people don’t find themselves armed and targeted in the middle of late-night shootouts. Whatever I’ve seen tonight was never supposed to be caught. Which means…?
Which means I’m now a witness to something that I never should have seen.
