At Paisley’s throat.
The sharp edges of the what remains of the bulb slip in nauseatingly easily, but I can’t hold up the lamp. As weakness overtakes me, I drop my weapon.
Paisley’s hand flies to the side of her neck, to the wound she can’t hold back with her bandaged fingers. She sucks in air, but it can’t overtake the gush of her blood shooting out.
Beck pushes Paisley off, the wound on her own arm leaking blood, whether a graze from Evan’s gun or Paisley’s knife work, I don’t know. The three of us soak this ugly motel carpet and make it even uglier.
“Oh, fuck,” Beck says.
My stomach lurches. Paisley’s eyes are wide as saucers, her fingers clutching at her neck, the bloody shard next to her on the floor. Her bandages have turned bright red, along with the entirety of her neck and the collar of her sweat-stained shirt.
Somehow, she’s still alive.
“Fuck, Beck, we need to get her to a hospital.”
I have no idea how long it’s been, but there’s no way Natalie or the hotel manager are far behind considering how loud it’s been in here. They’ve probably called the police by now. We need someone’s help.
I try to stand, but the second I put weight on my leg, I collapse under myself as the pain rages. I swallow bile as I press my hands against my thigh, desperate to rub away a pain that’s going to need so much more than that to fix it.
The blood only flows heavier, staining my entire pant leg, the carpet below.
I can’t shake the nausea. All I want to do is lie down.
“Emma,” Beck says. “You’re not good. I need to getyouto the hospital.”
“Take us both.”
Beck grabs my hand, but I can’t feel it.
Everything around me blurs, but Beck’s face remains perfectly clear.
Her stoic face.
“I’m not taking her. I’m taking you. I’m not saving a fucking murderer who hated me.”
She’s your sister.
But for the first time since we found Paisley alive, the words ring hollow. Not worth wasting my breath on.
Beck hoists me up, holding ninety percent of my weight as I use my good leg as a crutch.
“She hated us,” I mutter.
The last either of us see of Paisley Horne is her desperate blue eyes as it sinks in that it’s over for her. As she, I hope, finally regrets her cruel words.
Even if she doesn’t, we exit the motel room without looking back.
And in the end, with Beck’s injuries too, we don’t even make it out of the motel parking lot before she can’t support my weight any longer. I collapse along the side of the motel within view of Beck’s car. Behind us, a mural of Kingston adorns the outer wall of the business. It’s like a postcard: deep green trees, California sherbert sunset, and the words, WELCOME TO KINGSTON,CA!A LOVELY PLACE FOR A TRIP!
“C’mon, Emma, we gotta go,” Beck says.
She gives me one tug before dropping onto the pavement too. She leans against the mural with me. Her face is streaked in scratches, dribbling blood. Same with her hands and knees. The expensive jacket her mom bought her is ripped and bloodstained, only getting deeper red as the wound she got before I arrived bleeds. I glance at my leg and see it’s more blood than skin. I swallow down a rush of bitterness. The black dots of panic return, but they’re heavier this time.
I lean my head against Beck’s good shoulder.
She leans back.
And that’s how the flashing red and blue lights of the local police force find us—bloody, exhausted, and clinging to each other like there’s no one left in the world.
