“Only in the shoulder,” she says, like that makes it okay.
My hands find the bullet wound on his shoulder, and I quickly pull off my cardigan, pressing it against the injury, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. “You shot him,” I repeat, the awareness replaying in my mind like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
Celeste waves the gun. “Nowhereimportant, Scarlett.”
I stare down at Rafael, my throat stinging. His shoulder isn’t “nowhere important.” It’s the spot I bite when he makes me come, the place where I rest my head when everything overwhelms me. It’s where I fall asleep, where I feel safe, where I’ve learned what love feels like. And now it’s bleeding out beneath my hands.
I lean closer, listening for his breathing, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest. Relief floods through me—he’s still alive. But he’s unconscious, and I have no idea how bad the damage is. I turn to Celeste, watching her blurry shape through the tears in my eyes. “Why is he passed out?”
“He hit his head on the desk when he fell,” Celeste says. She brings the grip of the gun to her forehead, her chest heaving. “Is he not dead?”
I try to check his head for an injury, but I’m too afraid to move him, too terrified I might make it worse. I breathe out shakily, trying to collect myself, then reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. But as I pull it out, Celeste’s voice rises in a scream.
“Drop it!”
I freeze, my hand hovering over Rafael’s body, the phone tight in my grasp, as Celeste takes a step closer, the gun trained on me. My mind races, my thoughts spiraling.
“I have to call an ambulance, Celeste,” I say, trying as hard as I can to fight the panic. “He’s going to die.”
“Hehasto die, Scarlett,” she says, her tone taking on an eerie calmness. “If he doesn’t, Booked It is over. You love the podcast more than anything else.”
My heart skips a beat, my blood running cold. She’s lost it. She’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect the podcast, and she thinks I am, too.
I have to play along, have to buy myself some time quickly.
I set the phone down slowly, my hands shaking so hard I can barely keep them steady. “Yes, I get it,” I say, forcing the words out even though they taste like ash in my mouth. “Nobody can find out you were the killer, but we also can’t let anyone else die. You did it, Celeste. The podcast is wildly successful now. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face. “No—you’re just saying that. He’s a PI. He’ll go to the police.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “No, I mean it. You’ll leave, and I’ll call the ambulance and convince Rafael not to say anything. We can still fix this. We can still save the podcast.”
She hesitates, the gun wavering slightly in her hand. My eyesflick to Rafael, my heart aching as I see the blood still seeping from his wound. I have to keep it together, have to convince Celestefast.
“Please, Celeste,” I implore, my voice faltering. “Just go. We’ll figure everything out. But I need to save him.Please.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her response.
When a sudden noise echoes from somewhere in the building, her head snaps up. She glares at me, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t say a word,” she hisses between her teeth, her voice razor-sharp. “If I hear a single noise, I’ll come back and kill him.”
Before I can respond, she turns on her heel and storms out of the room, leaving me alone with Rafael. My heart races, pounding so loudly I’m sure she can hear it from wherever she is. Once I move my hand to Rafael’s injury, I feel a sudden grip on my wrist. Dark gray eyes with golden flecks stare up at me.
“Rafael,” I say, relief flooding me. “You’re okay. You’re—”
“Youhaveto leave,” he says, his voice weak but urgent. “Now.”
“What? I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to,” he insists, his grip on my wrist tightening despite his obvious pain. “Drive away,thencall the police. Do it now, before she decides not to let you go.”
“Rafael, I’mnotleaving you here,” I say, shaking my head firmly. I look back at the door, then insist, “So tell me what to do.”
His eyes flicker with frustration, and he gestures weakly with his free hand. “My gun,” he says, eyes darting to his waist. “Take it, and give it to me.”
I see the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, on the same side as his injury. I reach for it, but when I try to hand it to him, hestruggles to sit up and fails, slumping back down with a groan of pain.
That’s when I see it—blood trickling from the back of his head, staining the carpet beneath him. My breath catches in my throat, and I instinctively pull him back down, my hand gently cradling his head. “Rafael, your head,” I whimper.
He tries to speak, but the pain is too much. I can see it in his eyes—the frustration, the helplessness. I’m alone in this, and I have to do something.
