Page 130 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“I’m at the property,” I replied. It felt like I was speaking around broken glass.

The guy was still coughing. Still laughing, but no sound was coming out. He lifted his head to look at me, grinning with blood in his teeth.

I took another step backward.

“I’m on my way,” Dad said. “You safe?”

“I shot someone,” I rasped, struggling to raise my voice.

“Youwhat?”

“You said I should call you first.”

“Do not move, Myla,” Dad barked. “I’m coming.”

“I’ll be here.”

I dropped the phone down to my side and stumbled back to the stairs of the RV, sitting down hard. My throat felt like it wasclosing up, and my scalp throbbed. I focused on pulling air into my lungs through my tight throat and letting it back out again.

He’d stopped moving around, but he was still alive. I could hear him trying to breathe.

I didn’t dare put down the pistol.

I couldn’t tell who the first person to arrive was, but I recognized the single headlight and the familiar sound of Harley pipes and knew it was a friend. I took my finger off the trigger, but I didn’t put the pistol down.

“Myla?” my brother Otto yelled frantically, pointing a flashlight toward the house.

“I’m over here,” I tried to call back, but my voice was wrecked. Using the RV door as a brace, I pushed myself to my feet. “Over here, Otto.”

“Anyone else?” he asked, running toward me.

“Well,” I looked down at the body. I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Holy fuck,” Otto blurted as he skidded to a stop, his light illuminating the man I’d shot.

“He—I—” I squinted as the flashlight swung in my direction.

“Are you hurt?” Otto shouted. He rounded the body and came toward me fast. “Myla, are you hurt?”

“What?” I looked down in confusion.

I was covered in blood.

“It’s not mine,” I mumbled. “It’s not—he was—it’s not mine.”

“Thank Christ,” Otto breathed. His hand went to my face, and I flinched away. “You’re all right, sissy. You’re okay.”

“I think I need to sit down,” I murmured, my body starting to sway.

“Gun first,” Otto ordered, gently prying it from my fingers. He tucked it away efficiently and lifted me into his arms like a baby.

“I shot him,” I whispered, laying my head on my brother’s broad shoulder.

“Thank God,” he replied. “Good job, Myla.”

Otto carried me to the porch steps and crouched down in front of me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was getting the cake,” I whispered, putting my hand to my throat. “Ashley forgot the cake, so I came to get it. It was going to be a surprise. Cian and I were fighting, and I thought if I did something nice, it would make things better. It was an olive branch.”

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