Page 98 of The Pleasure of Panic

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - FINN

She twists, feet flying as she flips herself into a backwards somersault, ending up crouched down on the mattress, balancing on the balls of her feet, bound hands in front of her as she leaps through the air like she’s about to choke this motherfucker to death.

And in my head I’m thinking, No. And then I’m screaming it. “No! No! No!”

Because the gun goes off. The bullet hits her, blood splattering in all directions. And then I’ve got that gun in my hand, the old man not quick enough to take a second shot.

But Caleb is back, sucking in air like it’s a precious commodity. On his feet, crossing the short distance between us, reaching for me as I pivot and shoot. Hitting him dead center of the chest.

He slams against the wall—eyes open, hands still outstretched—and blood gurgles up and out of his mouth as he crumples to the floor.

I swing the gun back to the senator, hear the door open out in the main room of the safe house, voices shouting—“FBI! FBI!”—while I force myself not to look at Issy lying in a silent heap near his feet.

It’s typical shit after that.

“Drop your weapon! Hands in the air! Drop your weapon!”

But I don’t drop it. I point it right at the senator.

I have never wanted to kill someone so much in my entire fucking life.

So I shake my head and say, “There’s no traffic jam on the extra mile.” Because it’s the only thing that makes any sense at the moment.

My finger presses against the trigger, squeezing.

“Finn!” a voice calls from behind me. “Don’t do it, son.” The voice is low now. Somber. Almost soft. “He’s not worth it.”

And then a hand reaches for my gun as I turn to find my father staring back at me.

“She’s still alive.” He nods his head to Issy, where two people are already bent over her body, asking her questions and shining lights into her eyes. “Don’t let one bad decision take away your entire life, Finn. I already made that mistake enough for both of us.”

I watch, feeling helpless, as my father takes the gun from me and hands it over to someone else.

I feel insignificant and small as a medical kit is opened and they lean in closer, blocking Issy from my view, and I wait. I wait for her to say something. Shoot off some smartass remark. Some Zig Ziglar quote like, Success isn’t a destination, it’s a journey.

But she doesn’t.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - ISSY

Some people have out-of-body experiences when they’re hanging on to life by a thread.

I’m not one of those hippy fuckers. I didn’t see a bright light. There was no tunnel to walk through. And there sure as fuck was no sense of peace and wellbeing.

I am in pain.

That’s all I think about. The impact of the bullet. The hot blood that splattered across my face as I was thrown backward. Someone slapped me and asked me if I knew my name.

I tried to tell them to go fuck themselves too, but I don’t remember actually getting those words out, so… no fun.

Waking up with ceiling lights passing by above in a rush was not what I’d call a welcome interlude, either. Doctors, nurses, all kinds of faces hovering over me.

But one was missing.

Finn.

I’m pretty sure I got that word out, because one nurse, the one holding an IV bag as she jogged alongside the gurney, looked me in the eyes and started to say something, but right now I can’t remember any of it.

It could be noon or it could be midnight. I’m not sure. I just know that when I open my eyes, Suzanne is slumped down in a chair at the side of my bed.