Doors slam. Voices shout. Boots hit concrete as help pours into the rental.
And then the sounds start to blur—like they’re being dragged underwater.
My ears are ringing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
But Ivy is in my arms. That’s the only thing keeping me upright.
She’s wrapped around me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Her fingers are twisted in the back of my shirt. Her face is pressed against my neck, breath uneven but warm.
Drew stands beside us, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself like he’s cold. He’s shaking harder now than he was when he held the gun. Adrenaline has burned itself out, leaving nothing but the weight of what he did behind.
An officer approaches, his tone calm and careful. “Sir, we’re going to need to ask you a few questions.”
I nod once, because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out.
They don’t separate us at first. Ivy refuses to let go, and no one is stupid enough to try. A female officer approaches, speaks softly, and explains what’s going to happen next.
Hospital. Evaluation. Statements.
Ivy shakes her head against my shoulder. “I’m not letting go of him.”
I tighten my arms reflexively. “She’s not going anywhere without me.”
The officer pauses, then nods. “That’s fine. We can do this together.”
Questions come in fragments. Name. Address. How did you find the location? Did you know the assailant? Did he have a weapon?
I answer automatically, trying to keep it together.
Across the room, Drew is being spoken to by two other officers. He keeps shaking his head, hands clenched at his sides. His words filter over to me.
“I didn’t aim,” he says. “I just—he had his arm raised. He was going to hit my brother. When I heard him say, ‘At least she’ll see me end your pathetic existence,’ I didn’t think, I just?—”
“You fired to protect your brother and the victim,” one of them says evenly. “Is that correct?”
Drew swallows hard. “Yes.”
They go over the details of what happened, interrupting with questions. Drew is doing a hell of a job staying calm.
I’m proud of him.
“If you hadn’t fired,” the other officer says quietly, not accusatory, just factual, “someone would have died.”
The words land like a dropped weight.
If you hadn’tfired.
I feel it then—really feel it—the narrowness of the line we were standing on. How close everything came to breaking beyond repair.
My knees threaten to buckle.
Ivy grips me tighter, her panicked eyes meeting mine. The grief in them… Fuck. I squeeze her against me, cupping the back of her head. I never want to see her look like that again.
Paramedics push through next, efficient and insistent. They want Ivy on a stretcher. They want me checked.
Ivy refuses to go.
“She needs an evaluation,” one of them tells me.
