Page 51 of Mason

“We planned it all out,” he says. “Holden distracted the shooter, and I tackled him. His shot went wide, just missing Holden.” His voice crumbles under the strain of his confession. “I had the gun pointed at his head.” He rolls over to face me and through the mist of his tears, the sheer agony of his pain guts me. The guilt consumes him. “Then once we got him subdued, Lucas and Holden pinned him down while I just stood there, in a pool of blood, the dead bodies of my classmates—my teacher—sprawled out all around me. It was a god damn battlefield, and I was trembling with so much fucking anger.”

My stomach clenches.

“We were surrounded police,” he says, breaking up. “All I had to do was wait. But then I looked over at her body…”

Oh God. My heart is freefalling, spiraling through grief and sympathy, confusion and pain. His anguish radiates from his skin and it makes me almost nauseous with the intensity of it all.

“That woman was like a mother to me,” he says. “She was my mother, at least in my mind. And when I look back into that man’s hateful eyes, I knew.”

My throat goes dry. He looks away, but I turn his chin back. “What did you know, Mason?”

“That I was going to kill him.” He swallows hard. “I lost it, Liv. Completely lost it. There was no way I could let that man walk away, not after what he’d done.”

“But the police would have locked him up forever and then some.”

It was an open and shut case. The killer would have gone to jail for life, and maybe, with time, he could have provided answers as to what made him snap.

“I shot him, and it was premeditated by the time I did it,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. He jerks, as if reliving the moment. “And then, we made it look like a suicide. The three of us concocted a story to explain his suicide, and we made a vow to never tell anyone what really happened.”

Mason burrows his head in my chest and I pull him close, allowing his sobs to soak through my shirt. I imagine him as the young man who pulled the trigger, his innocence shattered, childhood completely wiped. What would I have done?

Can anyone really know what they’d do in the same position?

A man had come in and mowed down their friends and people who were like family to them. He’d wanted to kill the three of them too, if he’d been able to.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, quietly, with a conviction I don’t quite feel. Maybe I don’t fully understand it, but one thing is clear. That man deserved to die. “He was a monster.”

I hang on to that, allowing it to comfort and rationalize, as I thread my fingers through Mason’s hair. “You did what you had to,” I whisper. A tear trickles down my cheek. I sniff it back and close my eyes. “He had to pay for what he did.”

Mason’s breathing goes shallow and his body goes limp.

I curl under the blankets, staring up at the ceiling, drifting to sleep listening to his ragged snores.

Chapter 29

Mason is no longer cradled in my arms when I wake. Across the room, the tap turns on, off. I listen as Mason brushes his teeth, gurgles, then spits into the sink. My nostrils widen at the scent of coffee floating in through the kitchen.

The unnerving sense of déjà vu prickles my skin.

I toss off the blankets and sit upright on the edge of the bed. My t-shirt is wrinkled, and my jeans stick to my thighs, damp with sweat.

Mason emerges from the bathroom, a cup of coffee in hand, and mutters, “Morning.”

I try for a smile. “How’s your head?”

“Nothing some strong coffee won’t cure.”

His abruptness takes me aback, but I dismiss my own feelings and focus on him. After the night he’s had, he deserves my undivided attention. “How are you feeling…otherwise?”

He stares at me blankly before finally responding. “I’m fine.”

Mason is anything but fine. “Okay, can I do anything for you?”

“Go home.”

I’m grateful he looks away so he doesn’t see the pain I’m sure is apparent on my face. This emotional tug of war is wearing me thin. “I’ll change and meet you at the office.”

“Take the day off,” he says. “I’m very busy today.”