For the first time since this nightmare began, the world feels like it’s tipped—just slightly—back toward balance.
And I let myself breathe.
49
LILY
Bethany is still talking when they lift her onto the stretcher.
It’s disjointed, half-slurred, the words tumbling over one another like she’s afraid silence will swallow her if she stops. Blood darkens the fabric beneath her, and every instinct in me screams that this is wrong, that people like Bethany are not supposed to lie still and pale and breakable.
I walk beside the stretcher without thinking, my hand wrapped tightly around hers. Her skin is clammy. Too cold. I keep my thumb moving against her knuckles, a small, constant pressure, like if I stop touching her she might drift somewhere I can’t follow.
“Stay with me,” I murmur. I don’t know if she hears it, but I say it anyway.
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She squints up at me, lips tugging into something that almost resembles a smile.
“I really went all in, didn’t I?”
I choke out a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so close to breaking.
“I would seriously urge you to consider keeping your day job.”
The paramedics move quickly, efficiently, their voices clipped and calm in a way that feels cruel when set against the chaos still ringing in my ears. I don’t let go of Bethany until they tell me I have to. Even then, my hand lingers in the air for a second, reluctant.
Rowan stands frozen near the doorway, shock written into every line of her body. Her face is pale, her eyes too bright, like she’s one breath away from shattering.
“Come,” I say, reaching for her arm. My voice is steadier than I feel. “You’re coming with me.”
She doesn’t argue. She lets me pull her forward, our fingers lacing together like we’re anchoring each other to the present.
Outside, the ambulance doors slam shut, the sound sharp and final, sealing Bethany away from us as the light fades. I stand there for a moment, staring at the metal doors, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised no one else can hear it.
Silas steps up beside us, keys already in hand. His face is calm, focused, but there’s something tight in his jaw that tells me he’s holding the situation together by force of will alone.
“I’ll drive.”
The ride to the hospital blurs into flashes of streetlights and red signals streaking past the windows. Rowan sits rigid beside me, her hands clenched in her lap. I keep my arm around her shoulders, grounding us both, while my other hand rests low against my stomach, a quiet, instinctive check-in.
Still here, I tell myself. Still safe.
The moment we arrive, everything accelerates. We barely glimpse Bethany as she’s rushed through the emergency doors, her face ashen now, eyes closed. Someone shouts that she’s going into shock. Another voice answers that they need to get the bullet out immediately.
Then the doors swing shut, and we’re left behind.
The waiting area is harsh and unforgiving—plastic chairs, fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic and fear. Rowan paces in tight circles, her breathing shallow. I stay seated, because if I stand I’m not sure my legs will hold me.
Minutes pass. Or hours. Time becomes slippery, unreliable.
I think about Bethany’s laugh. About how she fills a room without trying. About the way she throws herself into things—into people—without calculating the cost. I think about how easily the world can punish that kind of courage.
When the surgeon finally comes out, his mask pulled down and exhaustion etched into his face, we both spring to our feet.
“She’s stable,” he informs us. “We removed the bullet. She lost a fair amount of blood, but she’s strong. She’s going to be okay.”
Rowan collapses against me, a sob tearing free from her chest like it’s been waiting for permission. I hold her tightly, my own eyes burning, relief flooding through me so suddenly it leaves me dizzy.
Bethany is alive. That’s all that matters.
