Page 218 of Overcast

The gunin my hand is cold and heavy, like my mind. The ultimatum is unthinkable, choosing to play God and be the person who takes away someone’s final breath.

“It might not be that hard to decide,” Eli confidently mutters next to me. “Reagan didn’t do anything, she’s an innocent in all this. Just like you, I bet.” The back of his finger trails down my cheek, and I know the spot he chooses.

The faint line that was created by Marty’s blade.

I flinch away from his touch just as Marty says something foul and loud. I don’t pick up on it, too dazed about how we’re all going to get out of this. How Marty might be the naive one in all this.

We’re outgunned, and neither of us has the upper hand.

“I’m sorry,” Eli says. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, but something has to be done here. My father was murdered in prison. I’ll never get to—”

“Was he wrong?” I blurt. “Did he do those things?”

I peer over my shoulder at the man who I thought was going to be a friend, and he appears taken back by my question.

“Honestly...yeah,” Eli conveys almost sheepishly. He keeps his tone lowered, so only I can hear his validity. “He didn’t do the best things nor make the right decisions. But he was a good dad. He was the only man in my life that thought I’d be able to do something. He was everything to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I—”

“Stormi,” Marty bellows, arresting my focus. I return back to him, and he’s glaring at me. “Don’t listen to his bullshit. He’s trying to build rapport. I do the same shit.”

“And he murders people,” Eli whispers. “And I’m not a gambling man, but I’ll wager some of them were innocent...like you.”

“He’s right,” Reagan pipes in. “He lures you in, it’s how he got me into that pantry.”

Eli steps closer to me, his expensive cologne encasing me in the bubble he made for us. “How many more will die by his hands?”

“Stormi,” Reagan chimes in again. “He made me believe something was wrong. That he was just a regular guy I was throwing a party for. He had a buddy in there with him and—”

“Enough,” Eli yells, stepping forward so he could get a full view of Marty’s sister. “Fuck, Reagan, how long are you going to keep that shit against me?”

“Forever, asshole,” she returns. “You tried to rape me.”

“He did fucking what?!” Marty takes a step in our direction, but he doesn’t get another because the ends of the weapons being held by Eli’s men are right into his back.

“Marty, stop,” I plead, fear rippling into my gut. “Don’t move.”

“Fuck this,” he rants, his handsome features twisted in animosity towards Eli now. “You tried to touch my sister, motherfucker?!”

“He didn’t get far,” Reagan transmits, trying to go backward. I can’t be the only one aware that Marty might do something extremely stupid. And if I see him shoot, I’ll crumble right to the polished floors. “I pulled out the knife you gave me.”

That has Marty’s attention.

He flicks his eyes back to his sister, his once hardened shoulders softening a tad.

Him and these knives.

“Are we done?” Eli asks, completely at ease over Marty about to lose his mind.

He must be insane or altogether stupid. Then again, he doesn’t know who he is.

I didn’t.

And he doesn’t want to.

“We will be soon,” Marty replies with venom in his tone.

“Alright—” Eli touches my forearm and raises the gun still nestled in my palm. “—pick, darling.”

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