Page 26
No, no, no.
The shaking starts somewhere behind my sternum and moves outward until my entire body is affected. The pallets shift faintly against my back, a soft wooden knock, and the sound is so small and so loud at the same time that I stop breathing entirely.
He’ll hear.
He’ll hear, and come around the dumpsters and find me, and—and then he’ll shoot me just like how he shot Wade.
I press my nails even harder into my skin as the man crouches beside Wade with the ease of someone tying a shoe. He pats down his jacket methodically—breast pocket, inner lining, waistband—and comes away with Wade’s gun, wallet, and phone. None of it seems to interest him that much, but he throws all three into the backpack, zips it closed, and stands.
There’s no hurry in any of his movements. No adrenaline visible anywhere on him. The rain soaks the shoulders of his coat, but he doesn’t so much as glance up at the sky.
He isn’t panicked; he isn’t shaking.
He looks at Wade the way you look at a bag of trash you’ve set by the door.
Suddenly, he turns my way and looks across the dumpsters and pallets and the exact square foot of shadow where I am folded into myself, knees to chest.
Please.
Please.
Please.
I don’t know who I’m asking.
God, maybe.
Dad.
The universe.
Anybody.
I hold back a sob of relief as the man looks away and crosses back to his car. His shoes move through the puddles without hesitation, without adjusting his stride. He doesn’t look back at Wade—not once, not even a glance.
The driver’s door opens; the backpack goes in first, then him. I stay exactly where I am, hardly breathing, even after the sedan drives off and I can no longer hear it.
One second stretches into eternity.
My pulse drums in my ears, though I can’t tell exactly how many beats have passed.
I can’t bear to look over at where Wade lies motionless. The sick tang of blood and gasoline fills my nostrils, and my stomach heaves, but nothing more than a few drops of stomach acid come up my throat.
I huddle behind the pallets, listening for footsteps on wet asphalt, the man returning, or an engine revving around the corner, but there’s nothing.
Oh God.
Wade is dead.
Wade is dead.
The world tilts as I bolt upright. My hand slams against a rusted dumpster; the metal reverberates through my palm in a harsh, metallic thud.
I saw Wade die.
And I just start running. My legs carry me away through a haze of rain and fear, sneakers skidding on the slick pavement until I regain purchase.
I hear Wade’s teasing voice, echoing in my head, “You run like a girl.”
