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I take a single step back in to see Trevor slump over silently. Blood spills out of a hole in his head as his gun slides from his limp fingers to the floor.

Rest in peace, friend. If you’re lucky.

CHAPTER 32

MILO

I’m dead.

Maybe not literally, but it certainly feels that way.

I squint at the white fluorescent lights above my bed. My entire body feels numb, but warm. My tongue seems twice its normal size, begging for water.

I try to raise my head, looking down at my feet. There’s a pair of shoes resting on top of the covers. I follow the set of long legs up to Anna’s sleeping face. She sits in a chair next to the bed with my jacket draped over the top of her like a security blanket.

She stirs in the chair, stretching out to get comfortable, but it seems more than a little impossible in that position. She gives up and opens her eyes slowly to glance around the room beneath those thick lashes.

“Hey there,” I say.

She sits up, instantly awake. “Hey.”

Her warm hand entwines with mine.

“I’m alive,” I say.

“You are.”

“How long have I been out?”

“A while,” she says. “You had some surgery.”

I chuckle, but instantly regret it. “Ouch...”

“Try not to move too much,” she warns. “Laughter isn’t the best medicine right now…”

I look down at the bandage circling my torso. “I got shot,” I say, slowly remembering.

“You did,” she confirms.

“How bad is it?”

“You were lucky. The bullet hit a rib, so that’s gonna sting for a while, but no major organ damage.”

A little more memory comes back to me.

“Did Vincent do it?” I ask.

“No.” She chuckles.

“I vaguely recall a very tall, very angry, baker.”

“He’s the one who found you,” she says. “Trevor shot you.”

“Oh, yeah...”

The clouds in my head disperse. I remember Trevor. He killed Canon. And Doogan — or Wells, I guess.

“Tell me you took down that dirty cop piece of shit.”