Something pink.
And shiny.
A lollipop.
Taunting me with its childish gentleness.
It’s plastic wrapper. It’s innocence.
Ihate it.
Whipping toward the counter, I grab a chef’s knife and slash around in a circle through the air. Hitting nothing. Proving nothing.
Tears spill over my cheeks that I quickly blink away.
“Why are you doing this?” I scream.
I need to make it to the gun. I don’t know if it’s loaded, or if I know what to do. But I can pull a trigger.
Like something could grab my feet, I sprint across the little hall into our room and pause at my side of the bed.
The nightstand drawer is open. I don’t remember leaving it open.
The gun is gone.
But my phone lies on top. And it’s ringing.
“Apollo?” I grab it and hold it up, knife still in front of my chest.
“Hey, tulip! I’m almost done here, but do you want me to grab?—”
“Get home. Now.” I drag in a breath, choking on the next words.
“What’s—”
“There’s someone in the apartment.”
thirty-three
I haven’t sprintedthis fast in my life.
Sweat pours from my forehead. Not from my game. Still in my cleats, I dart toward our front door and rip it open. Fingers ready to tear into the flesh of whomever is inside.
It’s silent.
Deadly silent.
Eyes frantically scan the living room, dining room, kitchen…
My chest aches with every breath.
I take off toward the open door of the bedroom and freeze. Hand on the doorframe.
“No! No! No!” An agonizing cry rips from my lungs. The sound gnashing at my throat like a saw.
Scout lies on the center of the bed, blood pouring from a deep gash in her arm. More sticky crimson streaks across the carpet all the way to my feet.
I’m moving. Surging forward and even knocking the gunfrom her hand to lift her. Limp, she collapses in my arms. Weight without resistance.
