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Oh, look. Her arms were bleeding.
The lightbulbs. Glass under her palms.
Nick.
Nick was crumpled on the floor. Not moving.
His eyes were closed. Blood had pooled on the hardwood floor, glistening where glass had collected in it.
She realized she was screaming his name. Glass sliced into her hands and knees as she scrambled toward him.
Then she caught movement from the corner of her eye and flinched, remembering the man.
Hide. Hide, Quinn.
Her brain wasn’t working. Hide where? In the open?
But no. It wasn’t the man. She didn’t see Gareth anywhere.
It was Adam. He was making the same slow crawl across the glass-strewn floor that she was. Blood streaked his forearms.
His head was bleeding from the temple—what had happened?
His face was wet. He was crying.
She was yelling. She couldn’t move fast enough.
Nick.
Nick.
Nick.
He didn’t move at all.
No. No no no no no no.
Adam got to him first. Rolled him onto his back. Nick’s arm cracked onto the hardwood floor, lifeless.
Adam was crying his name, too. He was pressing his fingers to Nick’s neck, struggling to find a pulse. Adam’s words came to her in slow motion, and her brain didn’t want to process them.
He doesn’t have a pulse.
He’s not breathing.
Damn it, Nick.
The side of Nick’s face was soaked in blood. It was already caking in his hair.
Oh, Nick. Quinn choked on her sobs.
Adam breathed into Nick’s mouth.
And again.
Nothing happened.
Nick’s voice was echoing in her head, from the night he’d told her their secrets.
