Chapter 65
H
e’s breathing. I can tell he’s breathing.
Crouched beside him, I’ve been watching the steady rise and fall of Ian’s torso for an eternity, and each time his chest cavity manages to successfully fill with air, I remind myself that I’m not a murderer.
Yet.
I check my phone, anxiety thrumming through my veins.
It’s been twenty minutes, but it might as well be twenty hours. I’m not entirely sure there’s a world left outside this garage – at least, not one I’m familiar with. For all I know, the sun’s burned the rest of the planet alive while I’ve been trapped in here with Ian.
If it weren’t for the blood trickling down his forehead, staining Rick’s subfloor crimson, I’d think he was asleep. There’s no anger to mar the lines of his forehead, no fury pouring out of his mouth, no knife in his hands.
I kicked the blade across the garage the moment he went down.
I check my phone again.
Twenty-one minutes.
It can’t be a good sign that he’s been unconscious this long, can it?
I stare at his rising chest, wondering if it’s just my paranoia running wild, or if his breath’s starting to sound shallow.
Maybe I should just call the cops.
I can make something up about finding him here, already unconscious.
I bite my lip.
Twenty-two minutes.
I should just call for an ambulance, consequences be damned.
And just as my finger hovers over the emergency call button on my phone, there’s a sharp knock on the garage door.
Heart pounding, I’m on my feet in a flash, my body braced for impact.
Oh God.
This was a mistake.
I should’ve just taken my chances with the cops.
I glance down at Ian’s fallen form.
Too late now.
“Come in,” I call hoarsely.
The door swings open the rest of the way.
“You really know how to build suspense, sweetheart. Telling me to come alone, bring medical supplies, knock three times, I’m really quite…” Adrian’s broad silhouette fills the doorway. He steps through, first-aid kit in hand, and halts, eyes widening.
“...curious,” he finishes.
I say nothing as he drinks in the scene with the same analytical eye that’s edited my history papers and pored over my math homework. His gaze flickers to Ian’s unconscious body, to the bloody wrench lying beside him, and then back to me.
There’s a distinct flash of surprise in his eyes – just a flash – before he schools his expression. “Are you hurt?” He demands.
Before the no leaves my mouth, he’s already crossing the distance between us and trying to examine me himself. “Are you bleeding anywhere?” His hands run down my hair, the back of my neck, and even my t-shirt, no doubt looking for a sticky coating of blood. “Any pain, sweetheart?”
“The medical supplies aren’t for me.” I gesture toward Ian. “It’s him you should be checking out.”
His answer comes with no hesitation: “Not until I’m positive you’re actually fine. You might not even know it. Your body could be in shock, you could be –”
“Adrian!” It’s both a command and a plea. “Please. I don’t have a scratch on me. Just check on him. Please.”
His face visibly softens, and he obeys, turning his attention to Ian.
He kneels down, takes a pair of disposable gloves from the medical kit, and examines the wound. “How long has been unconscious?”
I hover just out of reach, worried that my nervous energy might infect Adrian if I get too close. “Since I called you.”
Surprisingly, that answer doesn’t seem to incite the same panic in him that it did in me. In fact, Adrian’s as calm as I’ve ever seen him as he inquires about Ian’s condition.
“And he’s been bleeding this whole time?”
“I think so,” I reply. “I wanted to stop the bleeding, but I couldn’t find anything clean enough to use in here.”
And I was too afraid he might suddenly regain consciousness and disappear if I went searching in the trailer.
“It’s probably better that you didn’t,” he murmurs. He rips a sterile gauze pad from the kit and carefully places it over Ian’s wound.
Blood soaks through the white cloth immediately.
“I didn’t realize I’d hit him so hard.” I shift from one foot to the next. “It was just one swing and he went…”
Down.
Like a tree, cut from its roots.
“He certainly has, at the very least, a moderate brain injury,” Adrian says.
An inkling of hope flares to life in my chest. “Like a concussion?”
“Likely worse,” he explains. “From what I’ve read, most concussions don’t cause a loss of consciousness for this long. He could have a skull fracture. Maybe a contusion, but he’s stable. His airway’s not impacted. His pulse is strong. I can’t say for certain, but he should be fine. At least for now.”
I sigh, and my chest feels ten times lighter than it was moments ago.
I didn’t kill him.
I’m not a murderer.
Seemingly satisfied that Ian’s not going to die this very second, Adrian then turns the full weight of his gaze onto me. “You’re going to tell me everything, sweetheart.”
I take another deep breath.
And then I start explaining.
He listens with rapt attention as I explain the connection between me and Ian, the interactions we had last week, and how he must’ve commandeered Rick’s phone to lure me here after figuring out I cheated.
He’s stony-faced the entire time until –
“He pulled a knife on you?” The lethal edge to his voice sends a chill racing down my spine, and it suddenly strikes me how very close to Ian he still is. If he wanted to, he’d only need to reach over and –
“I don’t think he intended to use it,” I argue. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think he knew. I think he was just trying to scare me. Keep me from running as soon as I realized why I was here.”
His jaw ticks.
“And it doesn’t matter anyway, does it?” I continue. “I’m the one who hurt him. I did this to him.”
Guilt clogs my throat.
I did all of this to him.
“You had no choice,” Adrian says. “He lured you into –” He glances at the rusty tools lining the walls. “– what clearly could be mistaken as some sort of murder shack. Anything that took place afterward is self-defense.”
“But it wasn’t self-defense. At least, not the wrench. The wrench was intentional.” The worlds tumble out of me in a condensed nervous ramble. “He had the video, and he could’ve done anything with it and –”
“What video?” Adrian interjects, eyes narrowed, and I realize that I’d forgotten this part too. This morning’s near-death experience might as well have left my brain a pile of scrambled eggs.
My eyes cut to Ian’s unlocked phone lying a few feet away.
Adrian grabs the device, stands to his full height, and I hear my shaky voice filter through the phone’s speaker again. I have no desire to watch the video after participating in it only minutes ago, but I do watch him.
Even once the video version of me’s done confessing to my greatest sin, he continues to stare at the screen, an unreadable mask of calm. “So, this was going to be his leverage.”
I nod.
He presses a couple of buttons and then discards the phone at Ian’s feet. “And now his leverage is gone.”
I’m not prepared for the relief that barrels through me like a tidal wave. I stumble – and seemingly right into Adrian’s arms, the weight of this morning crashing over me as I rest my head on his chest.
“Thank you,” I mutter, though I’m not sure which part I intend to thank him for.
Coming to my rescue, no questions asked?
Ensuring that Ian probably lives to see a hospital room?
Deleting the video without a word?
His hands rub soothing circles on the small of my back. “You have nothing to thank me for,” he murmurs.
His touch’s a reassuring balm on this morning’s deepest wounds. “Well, I’m sorry then,” I say. “For dragging you into my mess.”
Calling Adrian had been more of an instinct than a decision. Even terrified, I knew I could count on him.
Probably because it’s not his first go-round with murder.
“Well, it’s our mess,” he stares down at me, dark eyes gleaming. “And we still need to deal with it.”