Page 13 of Sweet Sin

It’s my blood. The piece of glass that I still hold has ripped through the terrycloth and into my flesh.

“Please, Savannah. We can’t let him die. Do you want that on your conscience?”

His words snap into me. And I’m back in reality.

Searing pain in my palm. The blood… God, so much blood. And I’m naked. My clothes are back at the pool.

911. Where’s my phone? In the pocket of my pants, by the pool.

Or in my purse back in the house.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

“Savannah, please!”

Yes. 911. Must call 911.

I race into the house. Where would the phone be? Does he even have a landline?

He must, or he wouldn’t have sent me back in.

The kitchen. There’s always a phone in the kitchen.

There it is, sitting on the counter. I pull it off its base. My hands shake as I tap in the numbers.

Nine. One. One.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I freeze.

“Hello? Please state your emergency.”

I force my voice to work. “Two men came to the house. Guns. One of them is unconscious. The other has been stabbed.”

“Is it your house, ma’am? Are you all right?”

“Not my house. I’m bleeding.”

“Whose house is it? What’s the address?”

“I… It’s Falcon Bellamy’s house. Somewhere on the Bellamy property. I don’t know the address.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. I can see you’re calling from a landline. We will trace the call and find you with GPS. I’ll dispatch this immediately. Leave this line open.”

“All right.” The phone receiver—slimy with blood—drops from my hand.

Now what?

Now what do I do?

I fall to the floor. But tears don’t come.

This must be what shock feels like.

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