I’m careful not to look down as I step clear of Jack and into the hall.
“Breathe, Grant,” I say. “You have to breathe.”
He stops short, his hair standing up at odd angles, his face drained of color, then points toward Jack.
“Self-defense,” he says breathlessly. “It was … it was self-defense. He was killing you. He would have killed me, too. I had to. I—” He falls back against the wall, crumpling to the floor.
“It’s okay,” I lie. I lift a hand, hesitating for a moment before patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. It’s not like there’s a handbook for comforting a first-time manslaughterer.
He looks up at me in disbelief. “In what world is it okay?None of this is okay. I killed someone. I justkilled someone. And in such a cliché way.” He rubs his hands over his face and a pained sound erupts from him. “What is happening?”
“I told you, I—”
He holds up a silencing hand. “I swear to God, if you saycrime novelone more time.”
I sag against the opposite wall. If Grant doesn’t believe me now, he never will. Still, it seems like a good sign that he came to my aid. I’m pretty sure it’s too soon for Stockholm syndrome. Maybe he’s just a decent guy who wouldn’t wish bathroom strangulation on anyone, even me.
I nod toward his foot. “How did you even get up here?”
“I don’t know,” he says, rolling his ankle. “Adrenaline? I think it’s just twisted.” He shuts his eyes and throws his head back against the wall. “This does not look good,” he laments. “Even if I say it was self-defense, even if theybelieveme, that’s not the end of it. You can’t just sayoh, but it was self-defenseand they let it go, right?” He looks to me, his face drawn.
I shrug. I have no idea how any of this works.
He shakes his head. “Of course not. There’s got to be protocol I’d have to go through. Maybe even a trial. I can’t afford a lawyer. And even if I’m cleared, people will talk. People don’t like people who bludgeon people. Oh my God, I’m going to lose my job. My apartment … my cat … I’ll never be published …”
“You could write one of those tell-all books,” I offer.
He buries his head in his hands and groans.
An idea sparks in my mind. I push off from the wall and crouch in front of him, and for once, he doesn’t recoil. Progress. He looks up sharply with desperate eyes. “Or you could trust me,” I say. “Just for a few hours. Help me find the Gifter and get them to undo everything. I know you don’t want to believe me, Grant, but it’s the only way to get out of this. That or we wait out the story. But then we might die.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what the Gifter said. It’s just like a dream. If you die in a dream, you die for real.”
“That’s provably untrue,” he says, looking nauseous. He’s frowning at me, his eyes full of suspicion, but there’s also a hesitation that gives me hope. “So, just for argument’s sake. You’re saying this Gifter can make everything go back to normal?”
“Totally normal,” I say. “Never happened. No bludgeoning, no Jack, nothing. You go back to professoring and I go back to not being a felon.”
He stares at me for a moment, as if deep in deliberation, then glances toward the bathroom.
“Fine,” he says. His voice is half mumble, half whisper. “God.So … we have to dispose of a body now.”
Even facing the bleakness of our next steps, I feel a thousand taut nerves in my body slacken. I’m not alone in this anymore. And while I wouldn’t go so far as to say that feels good, it definitely feels less bad.
“Right,” I say. Then I accidentally glance into the bathroom and my stomach churns. “Just, first, tell me … is there blood?”
Grant’s brow creases.
“You mean on him?”
I nod. Grant looks back and forth between me and the bathroom, a bemused expression dawning on his face.
“Uh, yeah. I hit him in the head with a cast-iron pan. There is definitely blood.”
I press my fingers over my mouth to keep from retching. I close my eyes and breathe deep through my nose.Inhale.Exhale.Do not think about a dead man’s bashed-in head leaking sticky crimson fluid all over your best friend’s bathroom floor.
Oh, goddammit.
