The gunshot echoes for seconds to come. The bullet hits him in the skull, and he’s gone before he can even process it’s happened.
I stand there for a long moment, gun slowly lowering to my side, pointing at the ground. The pain from my thigh rushes back in spades, reminding me how fucking agonizing it is to even be upright right now. My lungs ache as if they’ve permanently run out of air and are out of order.
But it’s finally done. It’s finally over, and that’s all that matters.
34
SOLANA
“Ms. Youngblood?”
I look up to find a doctor approaching me, his expression grim. He’s an older man with graying temples and kind eyes that are heavy with sympathy.
The news I’ve been dreading for the past hour pits in my stomach.
I’ve been sitting in this emergency room drinking stale coffee from the vending machine and fidgeting the more I tried to sit still. My fingers have been picking at the wool peeling from the sweater I’m wearing, and my leg won’t stop bouncing.
Anxiety has been pounding fast inside my heart. All things brought on by the inevitable bad news to come.
I already sensed it once I got the call and rushed over.
As the doctor approaches, I jump to my feet and suck in a deep breath as if about to be plunged underwater.
“I’m Dr. Patterson,” he says gently, reaching out and shaking my hand. “I’ve been treating your uncle, Edward Youngblood.”
“Is he… is he okay?” I stutter. “Is… did he come out of surgery? Can I see him?”
Dr. Patterson hesitates, his brows pushing closer. “I’m afraid the gunshot wound to your uncle’s chest caused significant damage to his left ventricle and pulmonary artery. We did everything we could, but the internal hemorrhaging was too extensive.”
“No…” I murmur softly.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Youngblood. But he didn’t make it.”
I go quiet as the news I’ve been anticipating lands at my feet and I’m left to process how this could possibly happen.
Uncle Eddie is gone.
He’s gone. Forever.
I stand there, frozen, as the doctor’s words echo in my skull.
The bright room suddenly becomes dimmer and the sounds from the TV playing informercials quieter.
Dr. Patterson goes on to explain more details, including even mentioning putting my family in touch with mortuary services, but none of it really registers with me.
I’m way too shocked. Way too lost to even think about “next steps” as he calls them. All that keeps reverberating around and around inside my head is the fact Uncle Eddie’s not coming back.
He’s really dead—and Tom Cutler killed him.
The same Tom Cutler who used to come over for Sunday dinners way back when. The same Tom Cutler who called my uncle his brother but then tore the club apart once he returned from prison.
He shot my uncle in the chest and left him to die.
Dr. Patterson murmurs something about giving me a moment and then quietly walks away. I sink back down into the hard plastic chair, my legs unable to hold me anymore. My hands are shaking, the rest of my body oddly stiff and wooden.
I don’t know how long I sit staring at nothing but the wall with serene abstract paintings meant to soothe family andfriends as they wait for their loved ones. It could be minutes or it could be another hour.
Time doesn’t feel real right now.
