by Penny Reid
But my questions could wait. We literally had a lifetime.
And just like that, I was grinning again.
“Hey.” His hand came to my cheek, encouraging me to give him my eyes again. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
I sighed, lost in Roscoe’s soulful eyes, and nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He nodded too, threading our fingers together. “Let’s go.”
Floating on a cloud of thoughtlessness and euphoria, I took three steps forward, allowing him to lead me to the door, when I remembered a few critical details.
“Wait, wait.” I pulled him to a stop.
He turned, giving me a small expectant smile.
“I- I—” Damn, it was hard to think when he was so close and so very, very Roscoe, and I loved him so much. “I have to go put the money away.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder. “I was just about to when you knocked on the door.”
His attention drifted over my shoulder; when it returned to me, he still wore his small smile. “I’ll wait.”
“Okay,” I said, obviously still in a daze. There were so many other details for us to discuss. Such as the two police officers parked in the lot who would follow me wherever I went tonight, and the fact that no matter how much my parents loved Roscoe, they would not be okay with me having him stay over.
Stepping forward, he gave me another sweet kiss, released me, and stepped back. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”
I nodded and turned quickly, speed-walking to the kitchen entrance. “I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, and I’ll message Billy,” he called to my back, laughing lightly to himself. “He insisted on coming along.”
I’d just moved to slip through the counter opening when I heard the bell above the front door give a jingle.
“Billy,” Roscoe said, “I was just about to text you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roscoe start to turn, and I gave the brothers a cursory glance, my mind on the bag of money sitting in the kitchen and calculating how quickly I could stash it and get out of here. But then I did a double take.
Because that wasn’t Billy.
Oh my God.
A man in black. Long black hair. Tall and thin. Knife raised. Eyes on me. I’d never seen him in person, only his picture.
Only his picture.
My heart thudded painfully against my rib cage, a shot of pure terror and adrenaline had me reaching for my gun before my mind fully comprehended what was about to happen, because I couldn’t fathom it. I couldn’t accept it.
“ROSCOE!” I yelled, aiming, but I had nothing to shoot.
Razor Dennings had already brought his knife down, following Roscoe’s body as it crumpled to the floor, out of my sight.
Roscoe.
He didn’t make a sound. Not a sound.
Or maybe I hadn’t heard his scream. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
Move!
I moved. My heart wrestling with my training, I slipped back through the counter opening and ran towards the front of the diner, my weapon ready.
Shots. Bullets breaking glass. I grunted at an unexpected impact and collapsed to the floor.
My brain told me someone was shooting into the diner from the parking lot, but all my heart could see was Roscoe’s boot from where he lay on the ground.
Someone screamed. A sound of anguish, of heartache, and I was moving again, on my belly, crawling on the floor, on the glass, trying to get closer. Sharp, excruciating pain in my side, searing, wet.
I ignored it.
I ignored everything as Roscoe’s legs came into view. His torso. His shoulders. He was blurry. I blinked, clearing my vision.
The bullets stopped just as Razor came into view. Crouching, his back pressed against the front wall of the diner, just below the window, his hands up as though he surrendered, a small smile on his face.
His mouth moved. He was speaking. Asking me a question. I raised my weapon, and aimed.
His eyes grew large and he shook his head, waving his hands, and I heard his voice. “I’m unarmed! You can’t shoot me, fed. I’m unarmed!”
I hadn’t made up my mind about what I could do and what I would do before another shot rang out, followed closely by another. A revolver this time. Razor flinched, twisting away, covering his head, as though he thought I’d been the one to shoot.
Shouting followed. Voices grew closer. My eyes darted to Roscoe’s body, lying there, just lying there. I saw no blood, but he didn’t look like he was breathing. He was still, so still.
Another scream of anguish, and I realized—as Razor opened his eyes and looked at me—that I was the one screaming. He blinked, smiling his small smile, and I lifted my weapon, aimed, seeing only Roscoe’s unmoving body and a barren, meaningless future before me, one without Roscoe. One without his smile, and stories, and soulful eyes.
I’ll never see them again.
I pulled the trigger. If I could have done it a hundred times, I would have. But once was all that was needed.
Razor’s body jerked as the bullet hit its mark, he fell to the side clutching his wound between his legs. And this time, he was the one screaming.
“Agent Payton!” Someone yelled, the voice close. “It’s Officer Evans. We’ve subdued the gunman. Are you injured?”
“Call 911!” I yelled, or I tried to. But my voice sounded wrong, quiet. I coughed, and the hot, metallic taste of blood burned my throat. Even so, I tried again, “Help Roscoe. Call . . . 911.”
I was tired. So tired.
But I couldn’t rest, not yet, because Razor’s eyes locked on mine, wild with pain. Or was that madness? He was struggling to stand, his attention dropping to something I couldn’t see. More voices close by, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, everything was garbled, dulled. I could only see Razor and his insanity and determination.
He lunged forward, grabbing for the object. Once he had it in hand, he immediately lifted to unsteady knees. It was a knife. It was the knife. It was covered in blood.
Roscoe’s blood.
Rage and grief pumped through my veins, and all I could think was, Now he is armed, and now he’ll die.
But this time, when I tried to lift my weapon, my arms didn’t work. The pain at my side had become a void. I couldn’t feel my legs. My vision turned gray, like I was peering through a screen, and I narrowed my eyes, willing myself to live long enough to kill Razor Dennings.
Suddenly, he was there. Over me. He snarled, growled. A sound of wrath. He lifted the knife and part of me was glad.
I would follow Roscoe. Where he went, I wanted to be. I didn’t know how to be Simone without “and Roscoe,” and I didn’t want to find out. Not this time. Not ever again.
I carry you with me. You are in my heart. You have shaped my soul.
I stared directly at this man, this murderer, unwilling to meet death with my eyes closed. I was not afraid.
But then, just as suddenly, he wasn’t there. I blinked, ink filling the edges of my vision, and the last thing I saw before succumbing to darkness was a pair of frantic, soulful blue eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
*Simone*
Waking up in the hospital was like waking up in a Salvador Dali painting. At least at first.
I know now that I’d been dreaming. But at the time, I was convinced I was in a desert. It was cold, and someone was pouring sand down my throat when all I wanted was water. Coughing, I tried to turn my head away from the funnel filled with sand and the cold heat of the blinding, rolling dunes. I couldn’t. A bird overhead chirped. Or beeped. Its irises were red.
Do birds beep?
“Simone. . .”
Did that bird just say my name?
“Simone!”
I opened my eyes, or tried to, but someone had poured sand in them as well, and the bird was now sitting on my chest, definitely saying my name.
“Simone, baby, open your eyes, open your eyes,” she said. My mother, the bird.
My mother isn’t a bird.
“What? What?” the bird demanded. “She’s awake. Can we give her water?”
Abruptly, the sounds of my surroundings filled my consciousness—machines, TV, a door opening, soft murmurs of people—chasing away the false reality of the desert-like smoke rings rising into the sky.
“Mom?” I tried to say, my voice a croak.
“Thank you, God. She’s awake.” My dad was there, next to me, his hand in mine.
I tried to open my eyes again and mostly succeeded, but everything was too bright.
“Ms. Payton,” someone was saying, a voice I didn’t recognize. “Can you hear me?”
Nodding, I swept my tongue out to lick my lips, but it was just as dry as my throat. “Yes.”
“What is your full name?” the voice asked.
“Is this really necessary?” my mother asked, sounding agitated.
“Yes, it is,” another voice said, this one further away. “We’re looking for neurological impairment. The sooner we identify an issue, the better her prognosis.”
Neurological impairment.
“Where am I?”
My father’s hand gave mine a squeeze and I turned my head towards him, trying again to open my eyes. “Dad?”
“You’re at the hospital. There was a- an accident.” He hesitated here, but only for a second before continuing, “You were shot, but you’re out of surgery and the doctors say you’re going to be fine.”
“You lost a lot of blood.” This came from my mother, her voice wobbly. “We all donated.”
“Who . . .” I shook my head, confusion tangling with something else. Dread. Fear.
My mind was in disarray, and I didn’t understand what they were telling me, so when the first voice began asking me questions again, I responded in rote, clinging to each and breathing easier when I found the answers came quickly.
By the time she’d finished—the nurse—my eyes were open, thanks in large part to someone dimming the lights. I blinked around the room.
The nurse checked something by my bed, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back with the doctor. She’ll want to know you’re up.” To my family, she said, “Ice chips only. And please keep her calm. Say nothing to upset her.”
She left.
My eyelids felt heavy. Even so, I forced them open, greedy for details.
Daniella stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me, and I gave her a frown. “You’re not wearing any makeup.”
My sister lifted a tissue to her eyes and laughed, so did my parents.
“Is that your way of saying I look terrible?” Dani asked, grinning and sniffing.
“No. You’re always beautiful. I’m just . . .” I shook my head, blinking heavily. “I’m sorry, I’m really out of it.”
“You’re on painkillers.” My mother touched my cheek, drawing my attention to her comforting gaze. “Poe is on his way. His plane should arrive any minute.” She grinned, her eyes seemed to shine. “Oh, my baby. I’m so happy you’re alive.”
“Poe is on his way?” I tried to follow the conversation, my head wanting to fall back against my pillow. The lead weights attached to my eyelids forced them closed. “But where is Roscoe?”
“Go to sleep,” my dad whispered, his lips close to my temple. “You’re safe.”
“Is he here?” I asked, but could no longer keep my eyes open or keep my head from the magnetic cushion of the pillow.
“Tell him I love him,” I said, or I think I said. But maybe I didn’t, because I was already asleep.
* * *
The second time I awoke, I knew where I was.
I’m in the hospital.
When I tried to open my eyes, they worked. The room was dim, but not dark. Lights from machines, a panel light against the wall, and lights coming in through the window illuminated enough of the room that I could see my mother sleeping in a second bed against the far wall, my father asleep in a recliner near the door, and another figure sitting in a wooden chair next to my bed, not asleep, staring forward in thought.
I frowned at this third figure while I waded through sleep inertia and drug-induced grogginess.
At first glance, I thought the figure was Roscoe, and hope sparked feebly in my chest. Almost as soon as I had the thought, I dismissed it. The man wasn’t Roscoe. He didn’t feel like Roscoe.
While I was staring at him, the man looked up and our gazes clashed.
Frantic. Blue. Soulful.
“Billy,” I whispered, shifting as much as I could in the bed to get a better look at him.
He stood, presumably so I wouldn’t have to move, and reached for a paper cup from the table hovering over my bed.
“Do you want some ice chips?” he asked, already digging into the cup with a spoon.
I nodded, and he fed them to me, our eyes meeting again over the paper cup. He couldn’t seem to hold my gaze and his fell away to my mouth, watching the progress of the spoon.
The ice was ambrosia, and I sighed, my head falling back to the pillow as a shadow began to surface in my mind. I closed my eyes, looking deep within, chasing the phantom memory.
Roscoe.
“Where’s Roscoe?”
Billy had been digging in the cup again. At my question, the sound ceased. I opened my eyes. His were still on the paper cup.
“How much do you remember?” he asked.
My heart rate increased. I know this because the heart monitor over my bed told me so. Billy glanced at me, the monitor, then back to me.
“Is he dead?” I asked, not immediately knowing or understanding why, just that it was a possibility.
However, after the question left my mouth, I remembered—I remembered it all—and I began to shake. The room blurred. Oh God.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god.
“He’s- he’s dead, isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
Billy was there, his hands on my shoulders, his face in mine, and I knew with no doubt in my mind that the face I’d seen right before passing out had been his, not Roscoe’s.
“He’s not dead, Simone. Roscoe is not dead,” he said, his fingers flexing on my arms. “Calm down.”
The big man’s eyes darted to my heart monitor, and the machine began to beep, an alarm, a warning. My mother stirred.
“Calm down. You need to calm down.” Billy gently gathered me to his chest, as much as was possible, and stroked my cheek. “Roscoe is alive. He’s alive. Calm down.”
Thank God.
Thank god thank god thank god thank god.
I nodded, sucking in a shaky breath and wincing at an answering pain in my side. It was then that I became aware of a dull, persistent ache in my lower rib cage.
“I was shot,” I said, not remembering being shot, but remembering my father telling me. “Where was I shot?”
“Your chest. You came through surgery just fine.” Billy’s deep, rumbly voice soothed me. I listened to the rhythm of the monitor slow in one ear and the beat of his heart in the other.
Roscoe’s older brother continued to hold me, caressing my face, until the cadence of my pulse returned to normal. I felt his chest expand against my cheek just before he pulled away. Carefully, gently, he helped me settle back against the pillows and pushed my hair away from my face.
“If anything happened to you, if I upset you,” he said, his attention on my hair, “there’d be a hundred people in line, ready to maim me.”
“Tell me what happened. Where is Roscoe?” I asked again, my tone watery this time, because the question was a plea. I needed to know.
Billy gathered a deep breath, a flash of pain behind his eyes, and he nodded. “I’ll tell you. But
if your heart goes rock-n-roll again, I’ll stop.”
I nodded, taking a careful, slow breath, frustrated when I encountered what felt like a block in my airway.
“Roscoe wanted to see you Sunday night, right away, and he was acting a little, uh, manic. Like how Cletus used to get, in high school. Agitated.” His gaze moved over me as though continuously assessing my fitness for this conversation.
Staying completely still, I waited with an outward show of patience for him to continue.
He finally did. “We got to the diner and he told me to leave, that he’d catch a ride with you. I told him I was going to stay, just in case things didn’t work out according to his grand plans. So he left me in my truck, jogging for the front door. I watched him knock, then you showed up, then he went inside.”
I remembered all this, too. I remembered his speech and us kissing.
“When I saw that you two were right as rain, I decided to leave, figuring you’d drop him back off at home when y’all were done. I pulled onto the Parkway and wasn’t even a tenth of a mile away when I heard the gunshots.” He paused here, swallowing, and when he spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. “I got there just as Evans shot Strickland, and I jumped out of my—”
“Wait.” I shook my head, closing my eyes so I could imagine the events better. “Strickland was there?”
“Yeah. He was the one shooting into the diner.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed, or tried to. But when I heard the monitor betray the rhythm of my heart, I forced my mind to clear, breathing in through my nose.
“You have oxygen here,” Billy was saying, and I felt him press a mask into my hand. I took it and he helped me guide the cone to my face. I took a breath. Another.
“He’s dead,” the second oldest Winston said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Boone shot him.”
I nodded, indicating that I understood, though the information did not make me feel better. “He was working with Razor?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I assume he must’ve been, the timing is too convenient, but the sheriff is being tight-lipped about it and says he can’t share any details.”
