Dead Ringer

64

The echo of ragged breaths tugged me toward the surface of consciousness. They weren't mine; they fell in and out of rhythm with the shallow bursts passing my lips.

As I finally pried apart my eyelids, I came face-to-face with the floor. Literally. A giant splinter rose like a redwood inches from my nose, and another couple stabbed at my palms as I pushed myself up.

I froze when a puddle of blood came into view, thick and oozing. I bolted upright, splinters forgotten, and met Ciar's glassy eyes.

"Shit." I fumbled forward until he was within reach, but then I hesitated, my hand hovering in the air over his arm. I didn't want to hurt him.

"Maisye," he groaned. He had slouched closer to the floor, so that the radiator held his cuffed wrist at an awkward angle above the rest of his body.

"What happened?" I asked. My eyes landed on a red stain across his thigh, which gave way to an uneven hole in the fabric of his jeans. "You're shot."

I glanced over my shoulder, but the shed was empty. When I turned back, Ciar watched me with questions etched into every line of his face, but he only said, "I'm fine."

I swallowed. I heard everything unasked between us. Had I lied to him in the car, when I'd told him to say my name? That that was all it took to make it okay?

Maybe I had. It would never be okay. Not really.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted without knowing exactly which thing I was apologizing for. Blacking out while he was defenseless? Misleading him into sleeping with me? Coming to Boston in the first place, turning his life upside down?

Maybe all of it.

"You're not fine," I babbled. "She shot you. And left us here. I—"

"Maisye," he said firmly, as if that name still meant anything between us. "Breathe. Are you okay? Can you stand?"

Was I okay? What about him? Why did he even care about me?

I leaned against the wall and clambered to my feet, my legs shaky but strong enough to bear my weight.

He nodded. "Okay. Can you look for something to help get me out?"

Make yourself useful, you idiot. He didn't say it in as many words, but the tone of his voice—like I was a small child who needed constant supervision—said enough.

I tottered across the room, shaking out the sheets on the floor. Nothing, but what was he expecting? That Tilda kept a wrench handy in her bedsheets?

I shook my head at him from across the room.

He sighed, letting the breath out carefully. "Then you're going to have to go get help, because I'm not dislocating my thumb or some shit just so I can limp around outside with a bullet in my leg."

I bit my lip against the first thing that came to mind. I don't want to be alone.

"Right." I forced my brain to settle back into place, grabbed one of the sheets, and tore a strip off. Then I knelt beside Ciar and stared at his face for a few seconds to remind myself to be strong. He was counting on me. "What about your phone?"

"I left it at the garage. In case you didn't notice, we kind of took off in a hurry."

I pursed my lips. I had that coming. Of course if he'd still had his phone, he would've used it already.

"Tell me what happened," I said, gently palpating the wound. He was right; there was no exit hole, so the bullet must have been lodged inside. "Why did she shoot you?"