“Who’s that?” Thomas hisses at me.
I raise my finger to my lips.
Shhhh.
Silence. Then, another knock.
I look at the two guns on the floor. I assume Starks’s gun is loaded, but I know for sure the one from the planter box is.
I slowly creep toward the guns, trying not to make noise on the freshly bloodied floorboards.
“Alice?”
I know that voice.
“Alice? Are you in there?”
Richard. God, what does he want? Is the damn water heater out again?
Then I remember.
It’s five o’clock. I invited him over at five, promising a glass of wine and a long story. I was going to spill my guts tonight.
I look over at Starks, thinking he’s the one who spilled his. He’s looking directly at me but not moving. Eyes wide open, likely paralyzed in shock.
“Don’t answer,” Thomas whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back.
Richard’s car wasn’t here when Thomas shot Starks, so he couldn’t have heard the gunshot. He must’ve pulled up just a few minutes ago. Did he see Thomas covering the bloody snow?
Richard knocks again. He knows I’m here.
“Hi, Richard,” I call out. “I’m sorry, I have to cancel tonight. I’m not feeling well.”
A pause. “Oh, okay, sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. No, thanks, Richard. I just need to rest.”
“Okay, I understand.” The disappointment in his voice is obvious. “It’s just that, well, I want you to know you can talk to me if you want to. I’m a good listener.”
“I’m sure you are, Richard. Another time, I promise.”
Then I realize Richard must have seen Thomas’s car in the driveway, a car he doesn’t recognize. He probably thinks I found a better option for company tonight than him and am now feigning illness to get rid of him.
I almost feel sorry for him, but goddamn it, I have a dying man and at least a quart of blood covering my living room rug. I have no capacity for sympathy at the moment.
I know Richard is still there because my squeaky wooden porch betrays the slightest shift of weight on it. He hasn’t moved. He’s wondering if he should say something else. But he’s not the one who speaks next.
“Help me!”
Starks’s voice jolts me. I turn, and Thomas holds the shovel high above his head, ready to strike again.
“Thomas, no,” I say.
Through the door: “Alice? Alice, are you okay?”
“Get help before these crazy fuckers kill me! I’m hurt!”
Thomas doesn’t hit him with the shovel, but he kicks him in the ribs. Starks yells out.
“Alice, what’s happening? Should I call the police?”
“Yes!” Starks screams through gritted teeth.
“No, Richard,” I say.
In an instant, I realize that if I let Richard walk away, this all falls apart. He calls the police, the police come, we plead self-defense. But we clearly tried to cover up the shooting. And the story will come out about why Starks was after me to begin with, and that will all tie back to Jimmy murdering a small-time drug dealer. I was there that night. I could be facing prison when this mess gets sorted out.
Then I remember something else.
Richard works at the hospital as an RN. He knows how to treat wounds.
It’s a choice I don’t want to make, but I have to.
I open the door.
Richard stares at me wide-eyed, but it’s nothing compared to the expression on his face after I grab his arm and yank him inside, and he takes in the bloody chaos of my living room.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re a part of this now.”