Page 147 of The Night Shift

Dog’s body is limp and cold. Eyes lifeless. His fur is soaked through, clumped together with blood.No, no, no. I flip him over and see that his tiny belly is split wide open, a jagged wound slicing him apart exposing his intestines that spill out, dark and glistening. There are deep slashes across his ribs, down to the bone, flesh torn and frayed at the edges. There are thin, uneven stitches pulling at the skin along his abdomen, as if someone had tried and failed to put him back together. His throat — the tiny kitten’s fuckingthroatis cut open too, skin peeled back in a deep, black-red gash.

My hands shake.Who…the fuck would do this?It’s vile. Inhumane.

Theo’s chest heaves, his arms shaking as he struggles to push himself upright.

Carefully setting Dog onto the rug, I turn my complete attention to Theo.

Tears blur my vision as I press my palms against his shoulders, steadying him, using all my strength to shift him onto his back. He chokes on a groan; his face contorted in agony. I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, trying to find the source of all this blood — his ribs, his chest, anywhere — but there’s nothing.

Then my eyes flick to his hand. His really bloody, really limp hand.

I reach for it gently, carefully lifting it, turning it ever so slightly to inspect it.

Theoscreams.

A raw, broken sound that tears straight through my ribcage.

I pull back immediately, voice shaking. “I’m sorry.” I set it back down. “See?” I hold both my hands up. “I won’t — I’m not going to touch it. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

I don’t know that. I look at his hand again.

It’s a mangled mess of blood and swelling. His fingers are grotesquely misshapen, bent at sharp, unnatural angles suggesting a fracture. The skin over his knuckles is split open. Blood is pooling beneath the skin, seeping from lacerations across his palm. His fingers twitch slightly, but they don’t curl, don’t move the way they should.

His hand is broken.Shattered.

A sick, twisting heat coils deep in my chest. I bite down on it, choke it back, force it down. Anger, fear, guilt — whatever the fuck it is that I’m feeling, I don’t have the luxury of it right now.Later. Later I can break apart. Right now, Theo needs me.

I press my hands to his face, gently, cradling the bruised line of his jaw, and brush his hair back from his eyes. “I’m going to be right back, okay? I’m going to fix this.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans into my palm, barely conscious.

I push to my feet, forcing my legs to move, and rush to the kitchen. My hands shake as I grab the first thing I see that could work as a splint — a wooden spoon.

I move down the hall, searching for the bathroom, immediately finding the door to my right. I step inside, flicking on the light. I drop to my knees in front of the cabinet, yanking it open. Theo’s blood smears on the handle. I rifle through its contents with shaking hands. Gauze. Bandages. Bottles ofpainkillers. I grab everything I can carry and push to my feet, ready to go, hand reaching for the light switch when I see it.

What the fuck?

In the mirror above the sink, scrawled in red — not ink, not paint, but blood — are three words.

told u so

Chapter 29

Theo

I wake up to the smell of daffodils and vanilla.

There’s a dull, pounding ache at the base of my skull. My throat is raw, lined with sandpaper. I feel like I’m swallowing glass.

I blink sluggishly, vision swimming, the room around me shifting in and out of focus. The ceiling looks familiar. My gaze drops. I’m not in bed. I’m on the floor. The rug under me feels rough, the fibres pressing into my skin. I try to move, but my body protests. Every inch of me feels stiff and sore.

Something soft is pressed against my side. Something warm.

My head feels foggy. I squint down and see a body curled up next to me. Pressed into my side, face tucked into my arm. Blonde hair spilling over her cheeks, soft and untamed.

Holly.

I must be dreaming. Or dead.