Page 91 of Reasons We Break

A gunshot rings out.

At first, she doesn’t quite process it for what it is. It sounds like a firework. And then...glass breaking. Shouts from outside.

Simran scrambles up, a delayed reaction, and backs away from the door. It’s probably nothing, right? Some Lions getting into a little tussle with each other. A gun firing accidentally.

But then there’s another gunshot. And another.

Terror grips her.It’s happening, a voice in her head whispers.This is how the universe is balancing the end of one nightmare.

With another.

As if to punctuate this, she suddenly hearsvoices. Horrifyingly close, and coming closer.

There are only two possibilities here: police or rival gang. Either way...she can’t be here. She runs for the back door. It leads to a service hallway that has an exit. But as she reaches for the handle, it swings open on its own.

And there stands a tall man in a balaclava and hoodie, eyes glaringly blue and vicious. His gun is pointed right at her head.

A sound escapes Simran’s throat. “Pleasedon’t.” She puts her hands up. He descends upon her, and she backs up. Keeps going until she hits the wall.

He pins her against it. “Who the fuck are you?” His voice is gravelly.

Simran’s frozen. It’s like she’s outside her body, watching this happen.Think, she begs herself. What answer does he want?Think.

The cold metal of the gun presses under her chin, making that impossible. “I’ll ask one more time, bitch. Who are you?”

Her vocal cords feel like molasses. She cannot get her lips to form around any words.

Without warning, he raises his gun and hits her across the face. The metal is sharp and unforgiving, connecting against her glasses with acrack. They twist out of shape, digging into her nose, the lenses going lopsided.

She automatically reaches up to adjust them, but he grabs her wrist, then hits her across the face again. Her glasses skitter clean off. Her vision becomes a smear, the world losing definition, losing sense. “No—” she gasps, but he slams her against the wall again. A low chuckle.

“What, these?”

It’s like watching through a windshield drenched in water, but she can see the blurry outline of his boot, stepping deliberately onto something on the floor.Crunch.

The sound snaps her out of her fear. He’s had to shift his weight in order to destroy her glasses, so she shoves him as hard as she can. He stumbles—slightly. It’s all she needs.

She barely makes it three steps before he yanks her back by the braid. Pain shoots through her skull, and she crashes down behind the table. Her chin collides with the chair back on her way down. Blood fills her mouth.

She hasn’t even fully hit the floor before he’s hauling her up by the back of her shirt. Then slamming her onto the desk. Papers scatter off. Her already bruised cheek smarts against the wood. All she can see is the blurry outline of a book and her pen beside it.

Disbelief steals over her. This cannot be the end. As her attacker wrenches her arms behind her back, absurdly, Simran thinks of her parents. She thinks of the police showing up at their door to say,I’m sorry to have to tell you...

Her mother would collapse. Her father...he would collapse in his own way. Inwardly. There would be nothing left for them. Nothing leftofthem.

An inhuman sound tears from Simran’s throat. Some strength she didn’t know she had possesses her, enough that she can wrench one arm free. She snatches the pen from the desk and twists, swinging it with all her might.

It sinks into something soft. Her attacker screams and releases her.

Simran rolls off the table, catching a glimpse of him clutching his throat before she takes off through the kitchen door. She collides with a wall on her way. Clumsily, she skids into the dining area.

It’s dark. And quiet, other than someone gasping loudly. It takes her a second to realize it’s her.

She attempts to gulp it back. Her feet crunch on glass unsteadily as she heads for the door. She’s nearly there when headlights flash through the windows. Automatically, she ducks behind the front counter instead.

Somehow, the only light bulb still working is in the pastry display case, flickering from within. She ducks farther, not wanting it to illuminate her face, and nearly trips over something on the ground. Not something—someone. She drops to her knees, shaking, bringing her face closer to see who—

Shane. His eyes are open. His black shirt glistens as if drenched with water, but Simran knows better.