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Her wobbly mouth twists into something vicious and knowing. A whisper, but a shout, “Someone like…you?”
Trevor stills. Hesitation shows only in the flutter of his eyelashes, a small shock, but one powerful enough to keep his darkening gaze locked onto hers.
The air thickens between them.
At his side, his gloved hand creaks as it balls into a fist.
Billie senses it. The urge that steals his entire body, the urge to punch her lights out—but he doesn’t move. He stays standing as tense as that poised fist.
First time anyone’s called him out for it, she guesses. But not the first time she’s thought it.
Billie’s wry, twisted smile stays glued to her tear-soaked lips. Defiance is all she has, and she lifts her chin as if to prove she’ll never let it go.
Her eyes still leak tears, but the sharpness, the clarity of them speak silent words up at Trevor, ‘Got ya.’
Defiance or no defiance, her mask cracks when he snatches out for her. She flinches, a wince sucking in through her clenched teeth.
His hands come smacking down, hard, on the arms of the wheelchair. He leans over her.
Bringing his face too close to hers, he seethes through bared teeth, “Fuck this. It’s time for you to kill your best friend… then blow your fucking brains out.”
One hand slips away from the wheelchair.
Her gaze flickers to the movement, eyes wide, and her breath caught in her tightened chest. She watches as he reaches around his back—reaches for the Glock he has tucked away in his waistband.
But she stalled. And it was everything she hoped it would be.
Because that shadow that was once down the hall, the one that belongs to Preston sneaking up the corridor towards them, well it’s now stretching up the wall opposite them—
Preston breaks out of his slow, silent steps and comes rushing up behind Trevor. He barrels into his back, sending Trevor spilling over Billie on the wheelchair. Their heads collide, the crack of skulls connecting, and the instant wave of dizziness overwhelms her.
But she strains through the sting of the sudden headache and the white dots blotted all over her vision—she watches, squinting, as Trevor scrambles to stand up and turn around.
Preston rears back, a sleek curve of black in his hand.The gun. He lifts it and aims it at Trevor who staggers to find his balance, whose face is sheet white as if slapped by a ghost, and a frown that furrows his face.
Preston’s steps aren’t silent anymore. They’re purposeful. Each step around Trevor guides him, herds him, away from Billie in the chair, until they stand opposite each other in front of her.
The breath she releases is a long, shuddered one.
Her gaze is hooked onto the Glock Preston holds, and Trevor stares down the barrel, like he’s looking into the eyes of the Reaper.
If Billie expects a standoff, a pleading moment, any sort of talk at all, then the sudden blast of the gunshot would surprise her.
And it does.
A strangled cry twists her face as she whisps her head to the side, as if protecting herself from the bullet that pistons through the air—and smacks right into Trevor.
Billie’s breath is sharp.
Her body is tense and cringed back in the chair.
She blinks, rapid, and looks up at Trevor…
And he looks more dazed, more stunned than she does.
It’s not even the blank, somewhat confused look in his eyes that draws in her attention, but the mindless open and close of his mouth…
Is he trying to speak, say something to Preston? Is he silently gasping for air?
