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“You fucking bitch!” Marnie raises the gun in her right hand.
It seems to take forever before she aims it, but I know it can’t be more than a few seconds. She points the barrel straight at Floss, the girl retreating a step until she almost crashes back into Mr Malloch.
“How could you kill him?”
A crack rings out.
Marnie grabs her chest with her left hand, falling to one knee. Blood drips through her fingers.
“No!” I rush for her, but Harrison grabs my arm, hauling backwards until we both spill to the ground in a heap.
I fight my way free as Marnie points the gun again.
This time not at Floss but at the man who stands behind her. The man holding his own weapon in his hand.
I grab her wrist, pulling, trying to pry her fingers away, fear narrowing my vision until there’s nothing in the world but the trigger and the forefinger pressing against it.
Marnie doesn’t notice me. She stares at Mr Malloch as he steadies his pistol ready to fire again. Aiming straight at her, straight at me.
And I no longer tug at her fingers.
I help them aim. I push them flush against the trigger, fumbling, so numb it’s like working in mittens.
There’s another sharp crack.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
CONNER
The momentI’ve showered and dressed, I phone my brother, unwilling to let the conversation fester in my mind for another second. The hope is too great. The downfall would be too laden with disappointment.
I need confirmation that Creighton will appreciate the death rather than resent it.
My prepared speech comes out muddled at best, murky to the point of opacity at worst. As Patrick spits out question after question at me, I wish I was sitting opposite him in his office. This entire conversation would be so much easier if I could read his expressions, his body language.
But I’m the one who chose the venue, so any blame falls squarely on me.
“How about trusting me for once?” I say, my voice ragged through lack of sleep. “The boy was a dangerous quantity.”
“That you were halfway to expelling.”
“Yeah, well. Change of plan.”
Patrick sucks air in over his teeth, an annoying habit that’s a thousand times worse when nerves are stretched as thinly as mine. “You killed a kid?” he says in blatant disbelief.
“No. I killed an enemy informant.”
I don’t hear his response. My phone blasts out a siren. A warning signal.
It’s so loud in my ear I’m scared it’s ruptured my eardrum. The noise pierces my head like a shard of glass.
Patrick mumbles something indecipherable while I pull the device away to stare at the screen.
It’s Kingswood College.
They’re in lockdown.
“Fuck!”
