“Oh God, Valentina, are you okay?” Faith asks, and I feel her hand brush through my hair. I glance at her, but a light shines behind her head, making it impossible to make out her expression.
“Is McCrae okay?”
“Did you shoot him?” someone barks, and rage coils within me at the implication.
“No!” I scream, clinging to the sides of his leather jacket. They begin lifting McCrae off my body, and even though it’s a million degrees out, a chill sweeps over my skin, bringing with it a wave of gooseflesh.
I scramble to sit up, the sand mixing with the blood beneath me, making a thick paste over my fingers.
“Stay down.” My eyes snap to the commanding voice, and I’m met with a glare that’s like McCrae'sbut not.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Augustus,” I hiss, ready to channel every ounce of my rage and panic into one point:the man who’s done nothing but hurt McCrae for years.
“Valentina, what happened?” Faith asks, and I reluctantly look at her. The memory of the enormous figure once more pushes to the front of my mind, and I look around Faith, tracing the shadows where he’d been standing only moments ago. I come up empty as Faith whips her gaze to where I’m looking, calculation taking over her soft features.
“Who?” she whispers.
Before I have a chance to respond, Mateo steps into my line of vision, his chest heaving, blood covering the sleeves and front of his white shirt. My stomach rolls at the sight, and I have to fight off the overwhelming urge to gag.
“You better tell me what the fuck is going on. Why are you here? Why do you have a gun? And damn it, why the fuck is McCrae bleeding out?”
His questions are too much. I can’t see straight, much less think straight.
“We have to get him to the hospital,” I cry, pushing up off the ground again.
“An ambulance has already been called. They’ll be here soon, so you better fucking talk. A bullet wound isn’t something they’ll ignore.”
I sneer up at him, panicking at the realization he might actually think I’m capable of shooting McCrae. And then, I feel the press of the revolver against my back where I must have fallen on it, and I remember I was here with the intention of shooting my brother, or Adalene—whichever would inflict the kind of pain I feel clawing through my own chest.
He’ll never believe me, no matter what I say, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe me either. Everything’s so fucked up, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“I didn’t shoot him.” I look at Faith as I say it, and her glittering eyes soften a fraction. Licking my lips, I continue to stare at her, trusting her to understand what the others will refuse to see. “I don’t know who it was, but they were right there?—”
Her pale eyebrows push together in confusion. “Who?”
“What did they look like?” This time, the voice doesn’t come from Mateo, Faith, or Gus. I reluctantly lift my gaze to Adalene, who’s standing near the porch railing, her hand wrapped lightly around her throat. A blonde woman holding a baby against her chest, with eyes that could kill a demon with their heat, stands behind her. She’s formidable, and even I have the good sense to look away.
“What is it?” Mateo asks, his formerly cutting voice softening as he steps toward Adalene. His rigid muscles relax beneath his shirt, and I see the physical effect she has on him, all but melting the fight from his bones.
I remember when he used to be as tender with me, and then I ruined that too.
I shake my head. “I couldn’t see; they were just big and dark, like a shadow.” My voice wobbles, the words ridiculous even to my ears.
“That’s convenient,” Gus growls, stepping toward the deck—and his wife and child, no doubt—a gun gripped tightly in his fist.
How can I explain any of this to them in a way that’ll make them believe me? They clearly have their minds made up about what happened, and nothing I can do or say will change that.Why bother?
“Was that why you were here?” Adalene whispers, her eyes dropping to where the gun still lies on the ground beneath me.
I open my mouth and then slam it shut. I won’t lie, even if it would be easy to now. That’s not who I am—I’ll stick to the truth even if it kills me and everyone I know, and if I can’t admit the truth, I shut down, saying nothing.
It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s also the only way I’ve ever been able to compartmentalize the life I’ve endured and the baggage I carry.
“No,” I finally huff, looking down at my hands. I notice again that they're caked in blood, and acid pools in my mouth. No one else speaks to me, but I’m faintly aware of every single pair of eyes on my face.
There’s a groan in the background behind me. “Help him,” I plead. It’s the only thing that matters now.
“They’re three minutes out. I’m going to take him to the entrance in the truck to save them some time.” Gus stomps toward the truck, where McCrae’s fighting for his life.It’s all my fault.
