My mind is racing while the fear inside me is making me want to puke. Seconds later, I hear another gun go off. There’s no warning. No time to react, only flinch. It all happens incredibly fast, and I get caught up the middle of it, making choices based on my fear, going against everything my father ever taught me.
My gun goes off… I can’t even remember pulling the trigger, yet my gun goes off and the last man standing, the one with the four-leaf clover, falls to the floor on his back, clutching his chest. He gasps for air over and over again, though a few heart beats later, he stills. There’s a hole in his chest, blood pouring out of it and soaking his shirt. Just like that, it’s all over. Everything’s changed, just like I knew it would.
Because I have officially become a hit man and a murderer. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Layton was wrong.
I am a killer.
Chapter 7
Everything seems so much darker and colder. I’ve never been so cold, and I don’t think I’ll ever warm up again. The last few minutes keep replaying in my mind like a nightmare, even though I’m awake. But it always ends the same—with blood on my hands and the haunting image of the name Denny branded in my head. I can’t stop wondering who Denny is. If I killed a father. I’m not sure if it would matter either way. His blood would still be on my hands no matter who he was.
After the shots are fired, I go into shock; my body cold, numb, dead, just like the bodies on the floor. There’s blood splattered all over my skin, my hair, the floor, the wall, my clothes, the ceiling. I’m still holding the gun—why am I still holding the gun?
I drop it like it’s poison then stagger back from the bodies and throw up in the corner of the room. Layton doesn’t say a word as I empty my stomach and sink to my knees. He doesn’t ask me to get up. I don’t think I could if I tried. Instead, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the club through the back entrance where no one will see us. It seems like forever when really it’s probably moments before we make it to his car.
Layton carefully puts me in, buckles me, and then gets into the driver’s seat. It’s still dark outside, the moon a sliver in the sky, stars twinkling. It’s the middle of May, a warmer time of the year, yet it feels so cold.
“You have blood on your cheek,” I say as I sit in the seat with my knees pulled up to my chest, shivering and chattering.
He reaches up and wipes away the blood then glances over at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then, I guess, decides against it. He starts up the car and drives out of the parking lot and onto the street.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, shutting my eyes and turning forward in the seat. The heater blows over my body, however I can’t stop shivering.
“Home,” he says, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“What about my father?” I lean my head against the window, unable to hold my head up anymore.
“I’ll tell Frankie you did the job and to let him go. Everything will be fine.” He’s speaking to me, yet he’s not.
I open my eyelids, even though they feel so heavy. “And what about you? What will you do?”
“I already told you not to worry about me,” he says, looking straight ahead at the road. “I can take care of myself.”
I want to tell him that I am worried about him, that I do care about him, but I’m afraid to go there right now.
Layton and I don’t speak until we reach my house, but I don’t think there’s that much to say, other than we could talk about what’s happened. However, I don’t want to talk about it. Think about it. Remember it.
God, I’m a killer.
I can’t stop staring at my hands. They look so different. So tainted.
When he parks the car in front of my house’s entryway, he gets out and opens the door for me then helps me out of the car. My legs are wobbly and I stumble to get my footing. He catches me in his arms and helps me get my balance, holding me against him. He still doesn’t speak as he smoothes his hand over the back of my head over and over again. All I want to do is sink into him, disappear, vanish forever.
He starts placing kisses on my head over and over, and then he steps back from me and again I feel so cold. “Go inside and wait for your father to get home,” he instructs, quickly brushing his finger down my cheekbone, looking torn over something. “But, Lola, don’t believe anything he tells you.”
“What?” Confused, I struggle to get my balance. “Why not?”
“I can’t tell you why. You just need to trust me.” His eyes plead with me to believe him.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t even matter… nothing does… I’m as good as dead. You know it—everyone knows it.”
He swallows hard and then suddenly he’s pulling me back to him, his lips rushing against mine before I can even take my next breath. He kisses me with so much passion, like it’s his last kiss, last breath he’ll ever take, and it means everything in the world to him.
And just as quickly as it happens, it stops. He pulls away, slipping away, leaving me breathless as he whispers, “Run away. It’s the only way you’ll survive this. Run away and never look back. It’s what your mother should have done.” Without saying anything else, he gets into the car and drives into the night, leaving me stunned beyond words.
Like my mother should have done? What does he know?
I try to call him several times as I hurry inside, but it keeps going to his voicemail. I wonder if he has to go into hiding for killing Anthony. I wonder a lot of things, like why he thinks I can’t trust my father. Why he stepped up and shot Anthony himself. If it was because I hesitated and he thought I was going to get shot, or if maybe he was never going to let me shoot Anthony all along. If he does still care about me like he did when we were kids.
My heart feels about as empty as the house, entirely unfamiliar, entirely dead. I want to crumble in the emptiness and cry my heart out, but I’m not going to. Blood on my hands or not, I’m not going to be a weak girl. I’m stronger than that. So instead, I pull myself together and go straight up into bathroom to take a shower, confusion fogging up my thoughts. What do I do? Where do I go? Who can I trust?
I scrub and scrub and scrub. I scrub so hard to get the blood off my skin starts to bleed. By the time I’m done, I feel a little cleaner and my head is clearer. And I know what I have to do.
After I get out, I get dressed and then take a pair of scissors to my hair, chopping it off. Erase who I am. I know better than to think that my father won’t do everything he can to find me and probably Anthony’s family will as well. If I don’t want to be found, I have to be careful. Be smart. Go into survival mode. I’m going to run. Disappear. Forever. Carry out the plan I made in the park, pretend tonight never happened. Do what Layton says, which I guess technically means I’m trusting him. I don’t know why, other than I am.