By all standards, he’s good-looking.
Not the kind of person I’d expect to find in a situation like this. He looks like someone who should be thriving, not scraping by. How does a guy like him have no friends, family, or even enough money to buy a can of dog food? No one should ever look this defeated, this alone. Like a solitary soldier left behind on the battlefield, too beaten down to fight.
All so his dog could have a meager meal.
I extend my hand, looping my fingers around his palm and drinking in hisprofile: strong jaw with week-old scruff, long, fanning lashes, and unkempt brown hair hanging over his brow.
I’m not sure how much time he has left, or if he’ll even make it through the night. The notion is a missile to my ribcage.
Swallowing the burning lump of sadness, I part my lips. He said he liked my singing voice, and I feel like everyone should experience something joyful and sweet in their final moments. He’s a music man. It’s obvious, given the plethora of hand-carved guitars, the tattoo, the rock-band posters taped to his walls, their corners curling with age.
I close my eyes and start to sing that Dusty Springfield song.
My love for the 1960s started when I was nine years old and watchedBreakfast at Tiffany’swith my mother, the two of us huddled up on her favorite loveseat in the den. I’d become bewitched by Audrey Hepburn, to the point of mimicking her style. Pearls strung around my neck, oversize sunglasses slipping down my nose, my mom’s old pleated dress dragging at my ankles. I’d parade around the house, humming “Moon River” under my breath as Tag shot me annoyed glances from his perch at the video game console.
But it wasn’t just Holly Golightly’s charm that captured me; it was everything. The music, the fashion, the effortless cool of an era that felt untouched by time and technology. It was the crackle of a needle dropping on a vinyl record, the poetic rebellion of Dylan’s lyrics, and the cinematic magic of Technicolor dreams.
And now, years later, with a closet full of mod dresses and a heart that beats to the sound of a Fender Stratocaster, I still wonder if I’d been born in the wrong decade.
I don’t think Chase is a “Swinging Sixties” kind of guy, but music is music.
Songs have lungs. They breathe.
So I do what I can to keephimbreathing.
I make it through one more song—Carole King’s masterpiece, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow”—before the front door barrels open and the peaceful moment is eclipsed by Alex stomping through the threshold with snow in his hair and murder in his eyes.
“I swear I’m going to kill you for this.”
Literal murder, apparently.
I try not to take his threats to heart because I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s different now.
And that’smyfault.
“Alex.”
My long-term boyfriend, and best friend since we were kids, storms over to the couch and gawks at the barely breathing man beside me.
I jump to my feet, reaching for Alex’s arm. “Thank God you came. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Really? You didn’t know how to dial 9-1-1? Jesus, Annalise, use your fucking brain.” Alex shoots me a glare before approaching Chase with a frustrated growl and giving him a once-over. “This guy needs a surgeon. Possibly a coroner.”
My pulse hitches. “Don’t say that.”
“What do you expect me to do here?”
“I-I don’t know…help him, try to patch up the wound or something.” My fingers curl around his fully tattooed forearm as I bounce on both feet. “Please, Alex. You were a Boy Scout. You’ve taken first aid classes. And you helped that dog that was hit by a car last year.”
“Seriously? That dog had a broken leg, not a bullet wound and liters worth of blood loss. And I was a Boy Scout for five fucking seconds. Christ. What the hell even happened?” Minty colored eyes lock on mine as he rakes a hand through his tar-black hair. “Are you roping me into some seedy crime that’ll land me behind bars as an accomplice? Fuck. No way. I’m out.”
I gouge my nails into his skin, wrenching him back. “Alex! Wait. You haven’t even looked at him yet.”
“My vision is just fine. You asked for my opinion, and I’m giving it to you: he needs an ambulance or a body bag. Your choice.”
“I—” The words die in my throat as I glance over my shoulder at Chase. Something tells me Alex is right. I can’t worry about hospital debt or legal trouble. This is life-and-death. Nodding frantically, I reach for the phone on the coffee table. “Okay…okay, you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he snaps, something brittle in his voice. “You drag me out here, beg for my help, then you want to ignore my advice. Classic Annalise.”
