Page 83 of Seek Him Like Shelter

“Oh, so she’s barely shot,” the woman said, finding a bottle of liquor and a shot glass, bringing them over to me and pouring. “Drink,” she demanded.

Numbly, I found myself doing what she demanded, seeing as she seemed a lot more in control of herself in the moment.

“I’m Saff, by the way.”

“Elizabeth,” I said, a little concerned that the vodka didn’t burn on the way down. So when Saff poured me another shot, I took it.

“Well, Elizabeth, I think it might be a good idea for you to go hang out in the bedroom while the guys and I… clean up.”

“Clean up,” I repeated.

“Well, I don’t think the corpse really adds to the decor, y’know?”

“Saff,” Rico scolded, sounding exasperated.

“What? She’s going to notice the body is gone when it’s not still sitting here a week from now, gathering flies.”

“Christ,” Rico said, sighing hard.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here,” Saff said, reaching to grab my arm, pulling me with her when I didn’t immediately move to follow her.

She led me into Elian’s room, gesturing to the bed, where I sat.

“Okay, so, maybe just stay in here, okay? I don’t want Elian to blame me if you are more emotionally damaged than necessary,” she said.

And, with that, she walked out, closing the door behind her.

Alone, I slid down onto my side, pretending not to hear the sounds of the three people in the other room.

Cleaning up a crime scene.

That I’d created.

I couldn’t tell you how long I lay there, staring at the wall, in this weird dissociative state.

Until, what felt like a lifetime later, the bedroom door slid open.

And there was Elian.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Elian

I never felt more conflicted than I did when I walked into my condo to find my sister bleeding and Elizabeth standing there with traumatized eyes, her whole body shaking.

In the end, though, someone with a bleeding head wound had to take priority.

Cinna and I shuffled Islah into my car, then barreled toward the urgent care, demanding the woman at the front desk call in Dr. Conti.

He came flying in the door not more than five minutes later, his hair still wet from the shower, wearing rumpled clothes, the same ones he’d likely taken off before his shower, his eyes wide and panicked.

“What do we have here?” he asked as he led us into an exam room.

“Head wound here,” I said, rubbing my sister’s arm. “And a gunshot wound there,” I went on, waving at Cinna.

“I’m fine,” Cinna insisted for the fourth time, but she was sweating in her hairline and looking pale.

She was holding it together because she was worried about Islah.

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