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“You ...,” he breathed. Wetness tickled me; it was warm. I was afraid to sit up, thinking the reality was too good to be true. I’m not a lucky person. This had to have been all those missed moments, those missed dice rolls of life, saved up.

Kneeling on top of Darien, I put my palm on my sticky belly. His blood, not mine. He stared at me while clutching at his side. “Oh fuck, you shot me.”

I threw my hands up in a panic, one of them gripping the gun. “I didn’t! You shot yourself!”

“Same difference,” he groaned.

Whatever relief I’d felt was snuffed out. This man, as awful as he was, was dying in front of me. “We need to stop the bleeding!”

His eyes shifted sluggishly over to Gina. “She ... shoulda jusht. Shucked me off.” Darien was slurring; I slapped his cheek lightly. Then harder. He’d blacked out.

“Crap,” I said to the two unconscious people. The weapon in my hand was heavy; the blood on my shirt felt like ice. I had to think—do something, call for help, just ...

Costello burst through the curtain, breathing heavily as he took in the scene. He fixed on me, then Darien, and finally poor Gina. Two people barely alive, with me in the middle of it all.

His blue eyes locked me in place. “What the hell have you done?” he asked.

WhathadI done? I’d saved my friend ... I’d saved myself! I’d fought off a madman who wanted nothing good from anyone. I should have roared the facts at Costello.

Instead I offered up the gun, and my voice was no roar.

“Please help me. Please.”

- CHAPTER FOUR -

COSTELLO

Help me.

That frail voice, that haunting phrase ... it sliced straight through me. Memory is a funny thing, it exists in your head but also your muscles. Your cells. Hearing Scotch beg for help sent me back years and years, to a time when I was an arrogant teen.

To the moment my life was changed forever.

I looked down on a sight that brought me pure despair. Darien was bleeding, wounded by the gun I’d heard go off—the one in Scotch’s hands. She was straddling him like a lion that had conquered its prey.

Except she didn’t look like a proud hunter.

She looked terrified.

I was working through my shock to come up with a plan. If Scotch had killed Darien, the Deep Shots were going to lose their minds. We hadn’t even gotten to officially meet the new members. We probably wouldn’t now. Most would flee after seeing their comrade had been attacked.

Her eyes were big and brown. They reminded me of my sister Lula ... of a young woman cradled in my arms as she begged me to keep her alive.

But this wasn’t my sister.

This was a waitress I barely knew with blood on her hands.

Fuck. This was bad.

Staring into my soul, she said, “You need to save him.”

Well, that was the fucking truth, but why did she care? I’d loved puzzles when I was younger—still kind of did. But those were fun and this wasnot. “You want me to save him?”

“Yes!”

“The man you shot?”

“Yes—I mean no!” She looked at the gun she was holding, seeing it with new eyes. “I didn’t shoot him! I swear, it’s not what it looks like!”