“I didn’t hear a noise.”
“Then why are you standing up?”
“Old houses make noises,” he says. “My parents’ house literally screams at night, I swear.”
Nelle shakes her head, a deep pit of dread gnawing at her stomach. “I’m serious, James. I need to make sure everything’s okay out there.”
“All right,” James says. “Let’s go.”
She glares at his sudden persistence to join. “Why don’t you stay and protect the bed?”
He glares back at her, placing his hand over hers on the doorknob.
“Move,” she says through gritted teeth. “Please don’t be stubborn right now. Ican’tdie, James.Youcan.”
“I want to go out first,” he says. “You can come right behind me.”
“What if it’s a bear?” She has seen videos, and she hates their enormous heads, their tree-rattling roars, their black-as-ink eyes. “I don’t want you to get mauled.”
“I promise it’s just the pipes. Or the fridge, maybe. Old fridges always make weird noises.”
Nelle gives up. He’s right, it’s probably nothing. “Fine, go ahead.”
He opens the door, sliding outside first. Nelle creeps on his heels, an inch behind him, so she sees the man in the living room as soon as James does. Sees his soulless, deranged smile and his pearl-handled pistol.
Wallace Quill, acclaimed author, disappointing son, and god-awful father, in all his glory.
“Having fun?” he asks. “Enjoyed fucking in my dead parents’ bed, did you?”
“Yeah, we did,” James says, clenching his fists.
What is he going to do, punch a bullet? Nelle wants to tell him to back down, to cool off, not to make Quill angry because that will only make him pull that trigger. But she’s scared it’s already too late. That he is already fuming.
Quill takes aim.
Nelle grabs James by the shoulders and shoves him back as hard as she can. As he stumbles, she darts to get out of the way herself.
When the gun goes off, it sounds like a wooden balloon popping. She hears the blast, then only silence and her muffled heartbeat.
She can’t see, she realizes. Or hear.
The back of her head rings. Her body floats in a dark pool. And she has this deep feeling within herself that things aren’t going well.
James drops down, Nelle in his arms. He can’t hear her cry, but he can tell by her contorted face that she is in terrible pain. The ragged bullet hole inches from her heart, the exposed purplish muscles above the bone, the ink streaming out in hot pumps ...
He tries to remember what he learned in school, but his mind is blank.I’m no doctor.
Hands pressed above her heart, his only course of action is to use his cotton briefs to stem the bleeding. Nothing matters, not his nakedness, not Quill standing across the room with a gun that is most likely still loaded. All that matters is keeping Nelle alive. She said she can’t die, but what if she’s wrong? Surely she has never bled like this.
James screams for Quill to get help. In his own ears, his voice is muffled, but he hopes that Quill feels it like a slap to the face.
The front door slams shut.
James steadies Nelle between his legs and does not dare let go of the fabric against her chest. Instead, he eases them both backward until his back meets the wall. He keeps one hand pressed firmly against her and uses the other to hold her face.
“Hang on, Nelle.” He can’t hear himself, but he trusts that the words are there. “You have the world to see, an entire life to live. Maybe with me, if you want. We can go back to Paris. We can adopt kids one day. Or have cats instead. And it doesn’t matter where we live. Wherever you want, Nelle. Wherever you want.”
He presses his lips to her cold scalp, holds her to him, and talks to her until the front door opens again.
