“Move your hands so I can see your wound.”
He hesitated for a moment, then did that too.
Crimson blood kept pushing out of the small, round entry wound in his stomach. Not spraying. Not spurting. Just steady. Thick. It had pooled beneath him.
My fingers pressed into his abdomen.
He screamed.
The muscle felt tight. Hard.
“No artery was hit,” I said calmly. “Or you’d be dead already.”
His breathing came fast and shallow, but he looked relieved.
“But with that blood loss,” I continued, watching the way it kept seeping out, “I’d say an organ was hit. It’s not going to stop bleeding on its own. You’ve got maybe one, two hours tops without help.”
“Then help me,” he begged. “Stitch me up. Or call 911.Callthem.”
I rose and looked for his phone.
Mine was still at the hospital. On the stairs.
I walked over to the couch and grabbed his phone. His keys lay beside it, so I took them as well.
Then I turned and walked back to him.
“Call 911!” he groaned. “Quick!”
And I could. Tell them he kidnapped me. Tell them there was a weapon on the kitchen counter, and I took it and shot him when he got distracted. The gun wasn’t registered. Nobody would question my story. I was the one kidnapped.
The only problem was … that wasn’t the story I wanted to tell. Not after what I’d just heard in here.
So, I just stood there, staring at him. Phone and keys resting in my hands.
Blood pooled under his body. The smell grew stronger.
“What are you doing?” he gasped. “You said you’d call an ambulance!”
My mouth tightened. “That’s not what I said. I said I would look at your wound.” I gave a small shrug. “And I did. It doesn’t look good. An hour. Two, absolute tops. So good luck. You really need it.”
His face drained.
I bent, picked up the Florida sweater beside him, and stepped around him in a wide circle. Then I walked toward the door.
“No! Please!” Myers begged. He dragged himself across the floor, leaving a thick smear behind him. “Please help me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
The door handle felt cold, even through my latex gloves.
I opened it.
And left.
There wasn’t much more left to say about all this.
Behind me, his screaming shifted. Meaner. Hateful.
“You’re a fucking murderer just like your whore mother!” he yelled.
