“I’m getting Abby help.” She’s too light, too pale, acting like a shattered porcelain doll, her breaths come out ragged and all that causes my heart to rip open.

He swipes up a phone—Abby’s phone—and a knife covered in blood.

“That’s evidence,” I say. “Leave it.”

He pockets both like I didn’t speak. “I’m aware.” I don’t have time to argue. As I shove past him, he grabs my arm. “Did you see who shot her?”

Yes, but I don’t trust him. “No.”

I jerk out of his hold and his gun’s out as he sprints ahead of me.

“You tell the police you were on a date,” he says. “You went to get the car. You got separated. Abby called. Got scared. Went into the alley to hide and you went after her. You never saw me and when Abby wakes up, tell her I got her phone and blade.”

“What’s your name?”

“She’ll know who I am,” he says as we reach the street. “Now go.”

Sirens. Multiple sirens. The gunshots. The bar scene. The place is a powder keg and they’ll be coming in hot. I look to the left, look to the right, no cops in sight, but a crowd begins to gather.

I shift Abby in my arms as she’s dead weight. Dead weight. Fury and fear collide in my chest. “Someone call 911. Tell them she’s shot.”

They stand there, staring, understanding from the sirens that police are on their way, but I need them here. Right here. Right now.

“Now!” I scream with so much force that the word scrapes my throat.

People react then. On their phones. Falling out into the streets. Throwing their hands in the air, waving down the cops.

I drop to my knees. One arm hugs her tight. The other brushing the brown strands covering her face. Blood’s smeared over her cheeks. My gut cramps and twists. “Abby? Abby, please.”

I can’t lose her. I can’t.

Nothing. Silence and it kills me. I search for her pulse point and there’s blood. Too much blood and it’s pouring from her back, from her front. She’s been shot. They shot her. Rage rumbles through me and I kiss her forehead, not sure how so much wrath and terror and grief can exist at once.

“LMPD!” Their shouts are echoed, but still too far away.

“Here!” I shout. “She’s right here!”

I lower my head to Abby’s. My forehead touching her temple and I count her slowing heartbeats under my touch. “Breathe, Abby. Please breathe.”

Breathe. I suck in each breath as if it’s hers. Will her to stay with me as if I could force her soul to stay grounded.

“I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t make me lose you.”

I understand fear. Have tasted it too many times in my life and the worst type of fear is when the consequences of actions can never be undone. It’s the permanent type that can never be taken back.

“Just breathe.”

Abby

I’m drowning. Sound is muffled. So is emotion. My eyes flicker open, but there’s bright lights and people yelling. And pain. Pain in my back. Pain in my chest. Pain on my head. Pain that is blinding.

“Don’t struggle.” She has blond hair. Hovers over me. An angel in a blue shirt.

I swallow and choke. Fear rips through my body. I can’t breathe. There’s something in my mouth, down my throat. My hands shoot forward, over my mouth and my arms are caught and forced down.

“Abby! We’re helping you.” The angel appears in my line of sight again. “You have a tube down your throat. To help you to breathe. I need you to stay calm.”

I’m shaking my head. No, I’m shaking. My legs thrash. Dad. I want my dad. I’m scared. Tears burn my eyes. I want my dad. I want my... Thoughts jumble and crash and then they slow. Too slow. Logan. Stars. My father. The night sky. Warmth on my skin. The heat of night.

Then there’s a voice. It’s a calm voice. A reassuring voice.

Breathe...

Logan

There’s blood on my hands.

Blood.

Abby’s blood.

I’m trembling. My blood sugar’s low or high or I don’t know. There’s nurses and doctors and people all around. I slam my hands on the desk. “I don’t give a rat’s ass I’m not blood-related. Her friends are her family so tell me how she is!”

“If you don’t sit down, I’m calling security,” the woman behind the desk bellows.

A body sliding in front of me, a hand on my arm, and I jerk as I’m being pulled away. Isaiah’s best friend, Noah, has his back to me and is talking to the receptionist. “He’s calm. We got this. No need to bring in security.”

I called them. I called Isaiah. I said words. Words I don’t remember and Isaiah said he would be there. To hang tight. To not say a thing to anyone until he reached me.

Isaiah consumes my vision. His hand is the one clamped on my bicep. “Come with me. Now.” He turns me and I walk.

I glance over my shoulder and West is sauntering up to the counter. He flashes his cover-model smile and in his hand is folded cash. West’s a Young, son of the richest man in the state, and he’ll pay for the answers.

Isaiah grips my neck, forcing my attention forward, and Noah’s on my other side. It’s like I’m on a countdown and I don’t know what happens when the clock hits zero.

“Just keep walking, Logan.” Isaiah’s too damn calm. “We got you. Keep walking.”