Page 103 of The Art of Dying

“Kitsch, he doesn’t know—” Alecia began.

“Shut up!” I yelled. “Badger, you got five seconds.”

The gun was shaking in his nervous hands. He glared at me for a third of his remaining time and then lowered his gun. “I didn’t mean to, Kitsch. He didn’t tell me what I was doing it for at first.”

“What are you talking about?” Alecia wailed.

“In the journals,” Vazquez said. “There’s a name Mason kept noting, a contact he had in Quincy. It was in Russian, but we translated it. Badger.”

Alecia shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Drew, what did you do?”

“Put the gun on the floor,” Vazquez commanded him. “Kick it away.”

Drew did as he was told, holding up is hands. “It was a lot of fucking money. I knew it was illegal, but I didn’t know…” He looked at Alecia, pleading in his eyes. “I swear to God, babe, I didn’t know until this last year that it was about Mack.”

Alecia grabbed a fist full of hair on each side of her head. “That’s what this was? He paid you to be with me, to get info about Mack?”

Drew turned to her slowly. “I didn’t know I was going to fall in love with you, either. At first, it was about getting a post office box and taking the prettiest girl in town out, spoiling her, keeping her happy. But I fell for you, Alecia. How could I tell you the truth? I knew you’d hate me; I knew it would put you in danger. But then you got involved. You took it upon yourself to get his journal. You don’t know what he’s done. He could’ve killed us both. But instead, he used it to get Kitsch out in the open. He orchestrated all of this, from Kitsch finding out he was here to me pushing you to meet Kitsch with the journal. But I was stuck, babe. I had to protect you.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she breathed.

“Al…”

“Answer Kitsch,” she said. “Did you tell Mason about Mack? Does he know where she is?”

“He’s on a plane. By the time he gets to Oklahoma, he’ll know her precise location,” Drew said. He looked to me. “If I didn’t tell him, he would’ve killed Alecia first and then me. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Turn around,” Vazquez said, pulling handcuffs from behind her.

Drew complied, looking defeated.

“I’m sorry,” Alecia cried. “I’m so sorry, Kitsch.”

I pulled out my phone, dialing Grant again. “It’s me. He’s coming.”

“She’ll be okay, right? Oh God, the kids,” Alecia said, looking around, lost.

“It’ll be okay,” I said, taking a step toward her.

“Hey!” Vazquez yelled.

Drew maneuvered out of her grip and elbowed her in the head, knocking her to the ground. In as long as it took me to aim, Drew ran for the door. I chased him out and tackled him onto the kitchen floor.

“Stop!” Alecia screamed, running after us.

We traded a few punches, but then Drew wriggled free and we scrambled to our feet. I lunged for him again, but he grabbed a knife from the counter and sunk it into my shoulder.

I cried out, and Alecia screamed, but it was all muffled by the loud pop of Vazquez’s gun.

I turned to Drew, who was standing still, a shocked look on his face. He looked down at the blood spreading across his white T-shirt, oozing from the bullet hole in his chest.

Drew looked to Alecia. “I’m sorry,” he said, falling to the ground.

Vazquez immediately pulled out her phone, rushing to Drew’s side. “Dispatch, it’s Kelita Vazquez. I need a unit and a bus sent to 9234 Brush Street. Put a rush on the bus, I have an off-duty officer down, Priority 2. Lights and sirens, you hear me? Get them here now!”

Alecia rushed over to Drew, falling to her knees.

I grabbed a dish towel and handed it to Vazquez, watching her scramble to put pressure on his wound. The towel was soaked within seconds.

---