CHAPTER 25
Hazel
Christine fell backward, blood dripping from her head, her eyes going still. I imagine her body falling to the ground made a sound, but all I could hear was the tinny echo of the bullets ringing in my ears. She was lifeless. Dead on the ground.
Shock coursed through me, making me sweat. The ringing in my ears grew louder.
Christine was dead. I had killed her.
Maybe I was crying, maybe I wasn’t. I don’t know for sure. Tears or blood, Grant wiped my cheeks, and I grimaced at the feel of his thumb grazing my cheek. That was right. A crowbar. A pistol. My face was all messed up and Grant still looked at me like he would do anything in the world for me.
Because he would. I knew he would.
I have the vague memory that he carried me to his car. He said something about it being stuck, that he had called Zaid and Heather, and they were on their way. I collapsed into Heather’s arms. Some other men showed up, and soon, Grant and I were heading to the hospital. Zaid knew someone who would help. For that, I was grateful.
***
Under the fluorescent lights, Grant held my knee. The doctor examined my face for the second time, glancing back at the x-rays hanging on the lighted panel.
“Luckily, there are no fractures,” she said. “But she needs rest. No more horseback riding. At least not until she’s fully healed.”
Horseback riding?
“You remember those injuries happened while horseback riding?” Grant asked. Oh. So that was the passphrase we were using to tell the doctor that what we had done was of questionable nature. She knew not to press it because of Zaid.
“No more horseback riding,” I said.
The swelling had gone down enough since arrival that we were permitted to leave. That, or someone, maybe that same doctor, had made moves to let us out early. We picked some antibiotic ointment from the hospital’s pharmacy, then headed back to the apartment. As the casinos and the hotels stretched up on either side of the highway, I realized that we weren’t in Grant’s car.
“Where’s your car?” I asked, frantically looking at the vehicle around me. The white leather seats. The pristine dashboard. Where was the gunmetal car that had that faint, spicy smell like Grant, that car that I had grown to love?
“At the Vale house,” he said. “Zaid had to get it out of the woods.”
The woods. Where the bodies were. Oliver and Christine. They were dead.
“What happened to them? Their bodies?” I asked. “Don’t we have to take them to the desert?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, you rest.”
At the apartment, I recall seeing Heather on the couch, standing up to give me a hug. The same doctor from the hospital came by, on her way home from work.
But once Grant laid me in bed, I fell asleep.
***
The sunlight from the hallway spread over the comforter, the first clue that it was well past the morning. Someone was going through the cupboards in the kitchen, and I could hear murmuring. I turned over; Grant had earbuds in, no doubt listening to another podcast, but he pulled them out when he saw I was awake.
“You’re up,” he said.
“No shit, genius,” I said, but with a smile on my face. He smiled back. “What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
“You should have woken me up!” I started to yell, but an excruciating pain pulsed through my face, and not the good kind.
“You’re due for more meds,” he said, handing me a cup of water and some pills. I took them dutifully, trying my best to ignore the way swallowing hurt my face. But Grant looked perfect. Like it was a normal day.
“We face two psychopaths and you come out unscathed,” I said. “How?”
