Page 58 of Ghosted in Arkadia
I use one of the wooden crates to rest the barrel of the rifle on while I try to line up a shot. It’s hard since my right arm isn’t working, and the pain has settled into a constant nagging hum.
I can do this.
Ihaveto do this.
The rifle trembles when I look down the scope. The trigger is cool under my finger. My vision blurs at the edges from blood loss, but I focus on the center of Roman’s chest. I take a deep breath, then hold it.
A blur of movement to my left.
A flash of black.
Ghost?
A loud crack splits the air before I can exhale.
Roman jerks. His body staggering back before he crumples to the floor.
I blink. My finger is still frozen on the trigger. I didn’t pull it.I didn’t pull it.
Killian steps out from behind the beam, lowering his gun while smoke still leaks from the barrel. For a brief moment, he’s a silhouette bathed in red. Dangerous. Controlled. Familiar.
Where’s Ghost?
“You alright, princess?” Killian turns in my direction, but I remain silent. “Princess?” There’s a hint of fear in his tone, a nervous panic that suggests he cares more than he should.
Shouts ring out from every direction, but my body tingles while simultaneously feeling cold.
“Hey, princess.” Killian’s face comes into view. He’s on the ground with me. “You’re going to be alright. We just have to get you out of here. Backup’s arrived. Pretty sure they are going to be pissed their boss is dead.”
“Who are you?” I ask, staring into his one good eye.
A look of confusion crosses his features, but only for a moment before his head whips up at the sound of heavy footfalls. “We’ll sort that out later. Right now, I need you to trust me. Okay?”
I push away from him, but not effectively. My body slumps and I fall into the hazy abyss that means to swallow me whole. “Where’s Ghost?” I whisper before everything turns black.
I Plead the Fifth, But I'm Screaming Inside
Iwake up, strapped to a table, inside what appears to be a hospital. The room is white. My blankets are white. And my gown is a baby blue with a slit up the back to expose my ass. I have a handcuff on my left wrist, and it’s attached to the metal frame of the bed. My right arm doesn’t move as well as it should, likely because of the bullet wound that’s been nicely bandaged.
One of the monitors must have snitched on me because a nurse peeks into the room a moment later, her eyes widening as she makes eye contact with me. She then swiftly shuts the door and a few minutes tick by before it opens again, this time by a doctor arriving with an escort. The escort has guns strapped to his hips and a hard expression, like he is itching for a reason to pull a trigger.
“Miss Blackwell, correct?” The doctor asks, looking at a piece of paper attached to a clipboard.
“Your reading skills seem to be adequate,” I say, though neither of them crack a smile. “Anyone want to tell me thereason for all this?” I pull my left hand up to show off my inconvenient accessory.
“Can’t have you escaping before trial,” says the man with the guns. He gives me a mocking smile, but I get the impression he would rather give me a few new holes in my body.
“Anyone want to tell me what I’m on trial for?”
I’m met with silence and a glare.
My right arm is in a sling and rather than baby blue with ass cheeks, I’m dressed in a white jumpsuit with vertical black stripes. My wrists are handcuffed to a belt and my feet are chained together, so I can only shuffle forward as I am led into the jail.
This isn’t the jail I once worked at; this one is located inside the mated district. I haven’t seen a single familiar person since I woke up in the hospital.
“I would really like to know what I’m being charged with,” I say to the officer holding me by my left arm.
He looks straight ahead and silently leads me into a small room with a single table and two chairs. I am sat in one, chained to it, and then left alone in silence. A television monitor flickers to life in the upper corner of the room. Two grim faces stare at me, a man and a woman.
