And I…I hate it.
Without overthinking, I lean forward and scoop up the gun lying beside him. He lunges forward a second too late, the movement sending fresh, sticky blood pulsing between my fingers.
“What the fuck are you doing? Give that back!”
Heavy. Heavier than I expected. The weight of it in my hand feels so wrong. Foreign. But necessary.
Drops of crimson drip from my palms. Stick to my nails. Run through the cracks.
“No. Do you have anything else that could be used against you? Phone? ID?”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m hiding evidence for a man I met five minutes ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice rasps in a weak murmur, all his energy already expended.
“I’m calling an ambulance in the next two minutes, like it or not.” I push his hand away when he makes another weak grab for the gun. Stubborn ass. “I’m gonna give you a choice,” I grind out. “Either they take you as you are now, or you get to go to the hospital without incriminating evidence because some really nice girl—who you should really stop pissing off...” I pause to smack down his reaching hand again. “...took your gun before they show up. The choice is yours.”
Please choose the second option.Pleaselet me help you without getting us both arrested and questioned.
He levels me with a withering glare, but I deal one right back, forcing my face to show what I hope is a confident, unbothered front. I can be intimidating. I learned from the best, after all.
An icy gust of wind sends a new wave of shivers down my spine.
The pause is a living thing between us, weighted with anticipation.
Please.
Then the spell snaps. The man fumbles into his pocket with an exhausted sigh, retrieving a small disposable phone. A burner. Of course, it’s a burner.
I do my best to ignore how blood seems to cling to every object I touch.
I don’t dare allow myself a spare second to reconsider the stupidity of this plan. I’m not clueless. The owner of the weapon I’m so casually sliding into my thrifted Coach purse practically screams nefarious. Dangerous. I mean, he even tried to tell me himself.
It’s not a comfy hospice bed they’ll put me in.
The words should’ve sent me right to the cops, but something has grounded me in place from the second I saw him lying on that concrete. I know how useless our legal system can be. I’ve seen firsthand how good and evil can blend and cross. My stepfather taught me that lesson early and often. I’ve never had the luxury of believing in that comforting binary of right and wrong.
All I have is a desperate instinct. And tonight, that has to be enough.
When I flip open his cheap burner phone and dial the digits this time, he doesn’t move a muscle to stop me.
My voice returns to my ears muffled and thick, like I’m listening through water.
Yes, someone needs medical attention.
Yes, that address is correct.
I can barely make out the following response through the speaker, but I’m pretty sure the operator asked for my name. I snap the phone shut, brushing gravel off my knees as I stand on shaky legs.
Anonymous caller. That’s what I am now. Someone who was here and then wasn’t.
And that’s who I have to be tonight.
“Help is coming,” I whisper in weak reassurance. He doesn’t respond.
Slow breaths reverberate through his entire chest, sounding more like a death rattle than an act of habit. Maybe he’s too far gone to even process my words. To hear my voice.
Maybe I’m too late.
