Page 120 of Dirty Mechanic

She’s panting, eyes darting, like she’s fighting not to slip under. “I shot them,” she says. “I shot Mike and Rick.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she gasps, her voice raw and shaking. “I swear, I was just trying to scare him. It was supposed to be a warning shot.”

Annabelle’s beside her, holding Misty’s hand and pressing a bloody t-shirt to her belly. “I know. We’ll handle it. Just breathe.”

Her lip trembles. “I didn’t even aim. I just pulled the trigger.”

“It’s okay,” Annabelle says. “You're safe now. We’ve got you.”

Annabelle’s beside her, holding Misty’s hand with trembling fingers.

“Should I run up the road for help?” Annabelle asks.

I turn toward them. “No. We need to move her. Too much blood loss here.”

“We can’t carry both her and Blake.”

My jaw ticks. “Then I’ll do it.” I stand, lifting Misty in my arms.

She cries out but doesn’t fight. Her hands knot into my shoulder like she’s hanging on for dear life. Because she is.

“You help Blake,” I tell Annabelle.

She nods and helps him up, looping his arm over her shoulder. He’s groggy and swaying, but alive.

The walk back feels endless. The storm breaks open above us, like the sky can’t hold its grief anymore. Rain lashes sideways, soaking us again, washing away blood and mud and footprints.

We’re closer to Eric and Emma’s than the house, so we go there.

By the time we hit their porch, my legs are shaking. My knees buckle. Eric catches Misty in his arms and Emma, coat unzipped and eyes wide, runs down to help Annabelle and Blake. “What the hell happened?”

“Rick,” I rasp. “Mike’s brother. He shot Misty.” I barely get the rest out. “Mike tied up Annabelle and Blake. Took them out on the river. They went under. Blake almost?—”

I stop. Can’t say it, and Emma doesn’t wait for the rest. She flings the door open, barking orders into her phone.

“Lay her on the couch,” she says. “Towels. Now.”

Annabelle’s already moving. She runs for the linen closet.

Blake collapses into a kitchen chair like a rag doll. I kneel beside Misty, pressing fresh towels to the wound. She moans softly. Her lashes flutter.

“Stay awake,” I tell her. “You hear me? You still haven’t named your damn puppy.”

She cracks one eye. “Pickles.”

I blink. “Pickles?”

“Or... Button.”

“Jesus, you’re not allowed to name pets while you’re bleeding out.”

A flicker of a smile. Then she gasps, her body curling inward like it’s folding around the pain.

Blood streams down her leg. Too fast. Too much.

“Where the fuck is that ambulance?” I shout.

Emma’s at the window, phone pressed to her ear.