13 Murders

It's One of Us

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT'S ONE OF US

I reach for the remote. Press the button. The new flickers onto the screen. Normally I don’t watch the news, I used to, before I was arrested. Now I avoid it, it feels more like a fortuneteller to me than a bringer of news. One day I might be on that screen once again. I was lucky last time, my parents hired a good lawyer who protected my face from being shown to the public. The courts agreed as I was underage. Which reminds me, I turn nineteen soon. I had spent my eighteenth birthday in prison without realizing. The news reporter is a plump lady with dark hair. She bears a serious expression.

 “Today a woman has was taken to hospital after being shot in her home. The notorious childhood murderer, Grace Bagshot, is the victim of the attack and was raced to hospital after being shot twice by what was believed to be a member of the civil terrorist group, The Forth Alliance.”

"My heart stops.

 I feel as though I am made of lead.

 My vision goes black.

 I fumble desperately around the house.

 I’m not sure if I’m crying or screaming, perhaps both.

 Before I know it I’m at the hospital. I charge through the people, unaware of knocking or bumping staff and patients. The nurse at the front desk doesn’t acknowledge me.

 “I’m here to see Grace Bagshot” I blurt. She gives me a curious look and types something on her computer.

 “Room 184”

 On the run again. The elevator will be too slow. I take the stairs. Room 184. I run. By the time I reach the room my lungs are caving. But she’s there, and I forget everything. Her presence hits me like a brick wall. I choke on my own breath as she comes into view.

 Grace lies limply in the hospital bed, covered in thin white sheets. She looks asleep, a false façade, Grace does not sleep. Despite this, her pain skin is radiating a heavenly glow, but the beeping of the heart monitor and the hiss of the oxygen pump strike down any illusions of heavenly slumber. My eyes sting as hot tears run down my cheeks and a sour, metallic taste fills my mouth.

 I have known this girl for three months, shared all my secrets with her, and spent all of my sleepless nights by her side. For a second, I wish we were back at Everleigh, whispering over a sodden table in pitch darkness. But we are not. And we cannot go back.

 And so I interrupt her heavenly bubble by kneeling at her bedside, grabbing her hand, kissing it once. And then I cry. I haven’t cried like this since the night I killed Jeremy Linden.

My palms are raw. I feel every bit of warmth drain from my heart. I look down. He is lying there. Every piece of me that he has ever touched burns. My lips are on fire. A ring of raw flesh surrounds his neck. I did that. The rope lies on the floor. I count my own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. And then I crouch beside him, hope rising in my chest. I put my ear to his chest and count his heartbeats.

 None.

 And then I cry.

I close my eyes and beg her to wake up.

 “Wake up Grace. Wake up.” I whisper over and over. I press her hand to my face, as if in prayer. This is the firs time I have actually begged for something. Wake up. This is the feeling you get when a relative is inches from death. That nagging, pleading, chocking desperation. The feeling of being set up, switched on, as if you are a ticking time bomb. You take back every word, re-live every second, re-feel every touch. And then my heart skips a beat. And then she speaks.

 “Lizzie.” One word. A wave of relief. A bomb deactivated. All I can muster is a hiccup. She squeezes my hand.

 “You can’t be here.” She whispers. I look up at her. Her eyes are wide and filled with forced sleepiness, her smile nervous. The same friendly face I was met with is darkness. But her expression is begging me to leave. Because if I am caught here, we might be separated forever and we will lose our freedom. But I will not leave her, not now.

 “Grace- what- who?” I struggle to ask her why she is here and who shot her. He expression falters to confusion. I stand up abruptly, scared she might be slipping away. She reaches for my hand again and squeezes hard. Her eyes are drifting. They are becoming shiny and glazed. She is falling back into her heavenly slumber. I must ask her quickly.

 “Grace who shot you?” A blank look. “Tell me.” My voice is squeaky and drained. I am panicking. Her eyes are rolling now, backward into her skull. My tears subside, I am to desperate to cry.

 “Answer me Grace.” I beg. And then something in her snaps and she grasps onto consciousness.

 “Be careful… don’t… get… hurt… the thirteen… it’s one of us.”

 And then her eyes close, asleep once more.

 I know what I must do to stay alive, and to protect us. But I know that whoever is behind this is not one of us.

 Because us murderers look after our own kind.