Page 104 of The Art of Dying

“He’s bleeding out,” Vazquez said, pressing down.

“No! No!” Alecia wailed. “Drew! Don’t you dare! Wake up!”

Vazquez looked up at me, a smear of Drew’s blood on her face. “You gotta go.”

I frowned, desperate to help them.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Kitsch, go.”

I made a face, conflicted.

“You’ll never get out of here to get to Mack if you don’t go. Alecia? Alecia!” She grabbed Alecia’s face. “Look at me. Kitsch was never here, do you hear me? You and Drew have been fighting all week. You came and got me, and we’ve been hanging out here. When Drew got home, he picked a fight. I’ve been here for hours trying to deescalate. I offered to take you home with me to cool down for the night, you declined my offer, and I was going to wait by the road for an Uber, but Drew lost his shit. I could hear you screaming so I kicked in the back door to get to you.” She reached over to pick up the knife and handed it to me. “Take this.” She stood up, grabbed a paring knife from the holder, and sat back down.

“What are you doing?” I asked, just as she plunged it into her upper arm.

“Vaz!” Alecia screamed.

Vazquez put the knife handle in Drew’s grip and then tossed it to the floor, breathing hard. “Get out of here before there’s enough blood for them to trace back to you.” She looked to Alecia. “We straight?”

Alecia nodded quickly, her eyes wet and red. She shifted her weight, her knees slipping on the blood that was spreading out in a thin pool on the new tile floor.

“Al,” I said, my voice breaking.

She looked up at me, blood marking the places Vazquez had touched her. She looked exhausted, sad, and lost. “Go. Go save Mack.”

I ran out the back, down the street, and hopped in the Jeep. Mason was probably the black sedan in front of the house, on the way out of town. He had a good three hours on me, and he was headed straight for my wife and kids.

chapter twenty-eight.

Karen

It was still pitch black when I roused to the sound of whispers. At first, I thought maybe the kids had woken up and were playing quietly in the living room so they didn’t have to go back to bed.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and waited. Nothing.

I lay back down, pulled the covers up to my neck, and turned on my side at the same time, trying to slip back into unconsciousness, but then I heard it again.

Definitely not the kids.

I padded quietly over to my tennis shoes, slipped them over my bare feet and then walked slowly—heel to toe like Gina had taught me—to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer and retrieving my 9mm. The click the safety made was probably inaudible, but to me it might as well have been a bomb. I peeked around the hallway doorway into the kitchen, seeing one black figure standing behind my island watching the monitors, another discreetly peering out the window.

“I should wake her,” Gina said. Her voice was muffled, but not quite a whisper.

“Not yet. Let her sleep, she has a long da…”

Grant lifted his Glock and aimed it at me before he turned to look, his body relaxing a moment later.

Gina smiled and walked over to me. “Shoes on, locked and loaded, and I didn’t hear a sound. Well done.”

I frowned, clicking back the safety on my sidearm. They were both wearing bullet proof vests, dark clothing, and boots.

“What’s going on?”

“Kitsch called. He’s okay, but he’s on his way. Mason is, too.”

My shoulders fell. It was a strange feeling, being both relieved to hear my husband was alive but also that Mason had found us. “How?”

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