Counterfactual

32 | mea culpa

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MEA CULPA

( — an acknowledgment of one's responsibility for a fault or error. )

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          ROWAN'S WORLD COMES CRASHING DOWN LIKE A LANDSLIDE.

          Even though he never saw anyone get hit, he still heard the shot ring out and felt everything fall still. He felt it in his bones—the way it shattered the silence around them and how quickly that state returned to the courtyard, even if the bang was heard in a pretty large radius. Whoever heard it must have run for their lives, with some calling the police, but the core six remain right where they are.

          After all, where else would they go?

          Rowan struggles to break free from his father's grip, squirming and elbowing his way out, and slips forward once no one is holding him anymore. Isla nearly falls to his arms once he gets to her, feeling her shake under his hands, and his father pulls Laura away from them. She doesn't put as much of a fight as Rowan did, dropping the gun. It's his mother who takes care of it, covering it with a jacket and moving it away from the scene.

          Isla's cheeks are soaked with tears when Rowan's trembling hands cup her face, but, other than that and the trauma over what just happened, she seems to be fine. She's wearing dark clothes, but she'd feel something if she had gotten hit by that bullet, which makes it all so much more frightening. She was right in the way.

          "No," Laura sobs, interrupting the moment. She's looking their way, but her eyes seem to see through them . . . staring at something behind them, and there's only one thing of relevance there. "No, no, I'm sorry, this wasn't supposed to—"

          "Rowan," his father calls, voice cracking, and he instantly knows. When he turns to look at Rhiannon, who's still standing some feet away from them, he sees it—the red stain against the white fabric of her sweater quickly fills his entire vision, regardless of how hard he tries to blink it away.

          She stares down at her stomach right after he does, as if she hadn't even felt it, and he almost hears her gasp in surprise. His own stomach is turning as he immediately lets Isla go when Rhiannon backs away until she hits a brick wall, legs quickly giving up, and he fears he won't make it in time. If only he had gotten here sooner, if only he had talked them into staying in their room . . .

          One of her hands carefully presses against the wound, but it's not enough to stop the flow. Rowan pulls her to him right before she falls, with an arm around her shoulders and the other surrounding her waist, and he swears he can hear her sob against the side of his neck as her body grows limp. When they reach the ground, both her hands are covering the hole and stained crimson, and she whimpers.

          Isla moves surprisingly fast, meeting them in the blink of an eye, and Rowan doesn't dare to look at her. He feels it—the sheer terror, the anxiety regarding of what will happen, the anguish, the agony of every passing second, the fear that the next one could be the last. Rowan's hand, the one hanging by Rhiannon's waist, holds her by the hip, so bony it digs into his palm, but it doesn't hurt nearly enough as staring down at her.

          "Isla," she blurts out, with all the color vanishing from her cheeks to tint her sweater and hands instead, and reaches out a hand towards Isla.

          "Stop it," Isla lectures, taking her best friend's hand with both of hers. "Stop that right now. This isn't it, okay? Not after all we did, not after all we went through to get to where we are right now. We know the truth and we're giving those families the closure they deserve. We're not throwing that all away"—Isla tries to help cover the wound—"and I'm not losing you to this. Not now, not ever. This is not how and when it ends; you're supposed to get out of this town, make a name for yourself, get married to Jude and open a cat shelter—"