Page 102 of The Third Grave (Savannah 4)

Heartbeat slowing, he turned his attention back to the TV.

Still holding the gun, he reached across to the table for his drink and downed it in one final draught. He was feeling the alcohol racing through his blood, mixing with the downers—over-the-counter stuff—he’d taken to help him sleep. He’d tripled the dose, just to make certain he would sleep, and now his lips were numb, his tongue thick, his fingers wobbly as they held the weapon.

Owen’s dead now.

He can’t feel the pain any longer.

He doesn’t have to live with his demons.

He’s at peace.

Just do it.

The gun was heavy. So heavy. And awkward. It nearly slipped from his hand. He leaned his head back against the chair for support and his hand dropped to his side, his grip slipping, his finger still on the trigger.

You’ll be asleep forever.

And they’ll all feel bad about it.

It will be their turn to be tortured, to experience guilt.

His eyes drifted shut and he felt drool on the corner of his mouth. He reached up to wipe it away, but the gun in his hand was too heavy and he couldn’t—

“Just do it,” the voice said, and it was a soothing whisper, unlike the other mice-like squeaks still yabbering in the echo chamber of his mind. “Let me help.”

“Whaaa?”

He felt strong fingers wrap over his and help him raise the gun.

“No . . . I . . . dun . . . I dunno . . .”

The barrel, cold metal, touched his temple.

“Do it, do it, do it.” A raspy, determined whisper in his ear.

“I . . . I . . . wait . . .” This was wrong!

Too late.

The grip over his fingers tightened.

Owen’s eyes flew open.

Was this a dream?

Fuck, no!

Adrenaline poured through his blood. He started to struggle.

The finger—was it his?—Oh, God! Pressured, it clenched over the trigger.

Blam!

The pistol fired.

Lights flashed behind Owen’s eyes for one millisecond.

Then Owen’s world died with him.

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