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My ears ring. The gun hangs heavy in my hand. I can’t move. Smoke billows from the barrel.

Then chaos breaks loose again.

Someone in the crowd screams. Another person lunges toward the edge of the circle, and a shot from the upper level cracks past them, exploding a chunk of tile near their foot. Lyla’s voice slices through the mall, sharp and lethal, but the words blur under the ringing in my ears. Jacob moves in front of Poppy, shotgun up. Carlos shouts something from above. Joanie laughs like a maniac, which probably means someone is about to regret a choice.

But Leon steps into my vision, and the rest of the mall dulls around the edges.

He is looking at me.

Not Russ. Not the crowd. Not the body.

Me.

Slowly, with blood dripping from his knuckles, he lifts one hand and draws a tick mark through the air.

My breath breaks.

A laugh catches in my throat, half sob, half something feral and alive.

I lift my own hand.

And draw one back.

THIRTY-SEVEN

MY GIRLS

LEON

Russ’s blood spreads across the tile, thick and dark, finding every crack in the floor like it knows where filth belongs. His body lies in the middle of the court, skull split open from Clair’s shot, the back of his head a ruined mess against the blood-slick floor.

Around him, chaos sharpens.

A woman near the old pretzel stand howls first. Then someone else shouts. A man surges forward with a butcher knife clutched in one greasy fist, and a shot from the upper level cracks through the air, blowing a chunk of tile out near his boot. He stumbles back, face white, and the crowd recoils in a wave. Bones clatter to the floor. A tray of cooked meat flips from someone’s hands and splatters scorched chunks across the tile.

Clair stands near Russ’s body with the pistol hanging heavy in her hand. Blood streaks her face and throat, and her torn tank top clings to her ribs. She looks like she crawled out of a grave and decided to bury every piece of shit that put her there.

As she turns, I catch a glimpse of the black stars down her back.

I already want to add another one to her constellation. One for this moment. One for the day she stood in a mall full of monsters, ended the man who tried to destroy her, and still stayed on her feet.

Maybe I’ll add one to my back too.

A man near the railing shifts his gun toward Jacob. Joanie’s pistol snaps toward him from the second level.

“Take one more step, dipshit,” she calls, “I fucking dare you.”

The man freezes.

Lyla’s voice cuts down from above, sharp enough to slice through the panic. “Nobody moves unless they want to become a floor decoration.”

Jacob moves closer to us in the center, gun raised, putting his body between Poppy and the worst of the crowd. Clair pulls Poppy tighter against her side, one hand still shielding her eyes from Russ’s body. Carlos stays high near Joanie, covering the second level with the walkie clipped at his belt and murder in his eyes.

Bryant’s gaze drops to Russ’s body, then lifts to me. His polished charm is gone now, stripped clean by blood, explosives, and the sudden realization that his kingdom is not as untouchable as he thought.

“You won,” he says.

I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. My lip stings. My ribs ache. Russ’s last words still crawl under my skin, sharp little legs digging deeper every second.