Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Elliot’s feet are planted wide, and his arms are standing away from his body. He fixes his gaze on the gun that lies within my reach.
A slow grin stretches his lips. “What are you going to do, sis?” His tone is mocking. “Puke out your guts?”
A need to save the people I love makes me more animal than human. I tune out Leon’s voice that’s saying my name, telling me not to do it.
Picking up the gun, I round on Elliot in my kneeling position and point the barrel at him.
My stepbrother’s eyes flare. His face pales. With my phobia of guns, he didn’t think I’d touch the weapon.
“No,” I say, my voice surprisingly calm. “I’m not going to puke.” My aim is steady as I support my right arm with my left hand, just like Leon taught me. “I’m going to shoot you.”
Surprise registers on Elliot’s face. It’s the last expression I see in his features before I pull the trigger. Thanks to weeks of target practice, my aim has gotten better. The bullet hits him right in the heart. I don’t wait to see the life drain from his eyes. I don’t care enough.
I drop the gun and crawl to my mom. Placing two fingers on her neck, I feel for her pulse. It’s strong. She may have a concussion, but my biggest concern is Leon. He’s gone quiet. Too quiet.
My legs wobble when I push to my feet. It’s as if I’ve used up all my strength. The colors around me are washed out and bleak, especially those of the bodies that litter the floor. I don’t look at the blood or the destruction in which I played my part. I steady myself with a hand on the bar, trying to remember where I put my phone.
Shit. I left it in the car.
I stretch my arm over the counter and fumble for the phone until I feel the cordless receiver. I know all the emergency numbers by heart. My mom drilled them into me when I was little. My fingers move frantically over the dials, punching in the number for the private clinic. It’s the closest medical facility. A private ambulance will be faster.
When the operator answers, I say, “There’s been a domestic violence incident. My mom is unconscious, and my husband was shot. There are three casualties. We need an ambulance. Please.”
“Right away, ma’am. Do you have medical aid?”
“I’m fully covered.”
I ramble off the address and hang up. Then I rush to Leon. His tanned skin is pale, and the depths of his ruby-brown eyes aren’t glowing with that light that always seems to come from within. The color is flat, and it makes my hands tremble as I go down on my knees to work on the knots of the cord that ties his hands.
“Leon,” I say with a sob. “You hold on, do you hear me? You do not get to leave me.”
“Hey.”
His quiet tone stills me. Wetness coats my cheeks as I look at him. His head is resting on the back of the chair as if his neck can’t support the weight.
“I want to touch you so badly,” he says with a chuckle, caressing me with his gaze instead. “You did well, darling.”
“No,” I say, the word harsh as I break our eye contact and work on the knots again. “You don’t get to say things like that.” Things that sound like goodbye.
“You’ll be all right,” he says. “You’re stronger than anyone I know.”
“Shut up,” I yell through my tears, sobbing as I don’t make any leeway in untying the cable.
“I’m proud of you, Violet.” His voice is soft. “Always have been.”
“Leon,” I plead, crying harder as I abandon my futile efforts. I need a knife.
“Violet.”
He says my name differently, like he’s never said it before. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see it, but I can’t deny him when he says, “Look at me.”
I do. I look at him. I look at his handsome face and see my favorite color. “Leon, no.”
“I love you.” His smile is faint but peaceful. “I did from the first moment. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Fuck.” A sob catches in my throat. Hysteria threatens to take hold of me as I look around for something sharp I can use. I spin on my knees. “I need a knife.”
“No,” he says, the urgency in his voice stopping me.
I turn my face back to him.
“Stay with me,” he says. “Just for a little while longer.”
If he’d stuck his hand into my chest and ripped out my heart, it would’ve hurt less. Desperate, I grab a cushion from the chair next to me and press it on the wound in his side. I want to beg him again not to leave me, but that will be selfish. I don’t want him to feel guilty about something he can’t control.