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He’s still holding on.
I just have to open my mouth.
A slow, thin breath goes out of him.
I could do it now.
His grip slackens.
I don’t move.
I feel him stop moving, though. Feel his lungs stop rising. The stillness is horrific. I’m horrified. I’m numb. I’m going to be sick. I’m a murderer.
I can’t move to look at my phone.
Wouldn’t be able to see it if I did, because I’m blinded by tears. I didn’t use the insulin. I killed him anyway.
Maybe I should go on to our destination. Gabriel won’t want a murderer. He won’t want a person who didn’t try to get help. I know how he feels about people like that.
The plane levels out, and the flight attendant gets out of her seat. Her smile breaks when we come into view. “Ms. Bettencourt, what happened? Is Mr. Bettencourt okay?”
“No.” There’s no point in lying. “He’s dead.”
15
GABRIEL
I wakeup with the distinct sense that things are looking up.
The headache is much better. I don’t feel like I might be hallucinating. The rest of my body is still a wreck, but I can stretch my legs with less pain than yesterday.
It’s morning. I slept all night.
Slowly, because I’m not a fool, I ease myself out of the bed and onto my feet. That’s better, too. I keep a hand on the furniture and walk myself over to the door.
Open it.
“You’re up.” Mason’s standing outside my bedroom door, so close to the frame that I startle.
“Ooh. I have a stalker.”
He narrows his eyes. “I was coming to check on you. I’ve been checking on you every three hours all night.”
“I always knew you loved—” Wait. “You’ve been checking on me? Where’s Elise?”
“She said she needed a few things from your place. I’m assuming she stayed there.”
“No.”
Mason studies me. “That’s what she told me, Gabriel. I’m not making stuff up to fuck with you.”
“She toldmeshe’d be right back. Like she was going to the bathroom, not the fucking brownstone.”
“Hey, man.” Jameson joins the conversation with his hands in his pockets, his hair in a disheveled man-bun. He looks at me with more caution and less of his usual jackassery. I half-remember a blurred conversation last night about what I did in the alleys. I feel compelled to tell all my siblings, including Remy. My high-on-painkillers ass must have thought it was a fine idea to seize the opportunity. “You look like shit.”
“You talked to Elise last night.” I point a finger at Jameson. “What did she say to you?”
He shakes his head, bewildered. “That she left her purse in Mason’s car and she had to go get it. That she’d be right back.”
