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85

Eva

I run up the stairs and kiss him. He smells like sweat and blood. He wobbles a little on his feet, leaning on me for balance.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say.

We charge down the stairs. I can hear sirens on the street, heading toward us. The chaos seems to have scared everyone off. The ground floor is deserted. The firing squad does not seem to be following us.

Jonathan and I hurry through a very cute French garden, where I wipe and dump my gun. We pass through a garden gate and land on the back side of the Avenue de la Campagne.

I thread my fingers through his. We charge down the alleyway. We keep our eyes on the busy streets beyond. We try to get as much distance from the scene as possible. The police sail by along the main road. We both exhale a sigh of relief.

“Now,” I say, still struggling to catch my breath. My heart and my veins are electric with adrenaline. “We don’t have to get into this now, but I just want to confirm—while it’s still fresh in our minds—that I killed him.”

“Beg your pardon? I stabbed him.”

“Again, I don’t want to argue right now, but you stabbed him in the stomach. I mean, maybe he would have gone septic in the hospital, but—”

“I took out multiple organs.”

“I shot him. In the head. It was a kill shot.”

“He was already as good as dead.” Jonathan staggers a little, clearly exhausted.

“You know, I didn’t want to bring this up,” I say, “but you also thought you killed Andrew.”

“You are so…” He lists against the wall of a building. I try to help him, and when I pull my hand away from his waist, I realize it’s covered in blood.

“Oh my God, you’ve been shot.”

“There was a firing squad,” he says, sliding down the wall toward the ground. I can see the adrenaline leaving him. His face is flat white.

“Oh my God.” I pull up his shirt. He’s peppered with gunshot wounds. Worse, the blood is pumping. They hit an artery.

“Don’t worry,” he says, slightly slurring. “S’nothing. I’ve died four times.” His head drops back against the wall. “It feels different this time.”

I take his phone from his coat pocket. “Don’t worry. I’m calling Mas.”

I find Mas’s number in recent calls and let the phone ring as I struggle to make a tourniquet big enough. My hands are shaking. I can’t hear the sirens anymore, but I almost wish the police would find us, wish we could be caught, so someone could save us.

“I just want you to know—,” he starts.

“Shut up! Don’t say anything.” I’m afraid that if he does, it will really be over.

“I just want you to know,” he repeats, “that I should have chosen you.”

“You did choose me.”

“I mean, before all this. I should have chosen you instead of murder. Maybe then we wouldn’t—”

“No! I didn’t want to believe it, but maybe every bad thing brought us here. Maybe we had to— Jonathan, are you listening?”

He exhales. It sounds suspiciously like a death rattle. Then his head falls forward, so he’s staring at the ground.