My eyes opened. I was on the gravel drive leading to the parking area a few feet from the tree I’d hit when the Toyota sideswiped me.
Everything hurt, but I could breathe again. Barely.
Rose’s SUV was still on the other side off the lot. A figure lay on the ground. No sign of the Camry.
I pushed myself to my knees. My gun lay a couple feet away. I grabbed it and staggered toward the vehicle, ignoring the pain in my back and head.
They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
Despite the various pains in my body, I started walking faster toward Rose’s SUV.
What nobody ever talks about is what happens when someone else is dying—someone you’re close to—how your life together flickers across the high-def screen in your mind.
My walk turned into a jog. Then a dash.
I skidded to a stop by Rose’s prone body. She wasn’t moving. Her head was turned to one side, hair in her face.
The bullet had hit just above her collarbone. Just above the protective vest she wore. A dark hole pumping blood.
I pressed down on the wound with one hand, fumbled for my cell with the other. “Stay with me, Rose.”
We had met in our twenties, at a bar frequented by cops, a place with sawdust on the floor and Merle Haggard on the jukebox. Post Y2K, pre-September 11, when the new millennium still held promise, especially for a pair of young officers looking to make their mark.
Blood seeped between my fingers.
“It’s all good, Rose. You’re going to be fine.” I managed to get the phone out of my jeans and punch in 911.
That first night at the bar she’d strolled over to the pool table where I had been playing eight ball with my partner. She’d placed a pair of quarters on the table, challenging the winner to a game. The way she looked at me when she slapped the quarters down—those mahogany eyes shimmering in the dim light, a sardonic smile on her lips—I felt my pulse beat a notch faster.
My partner, sensing the attraction, scratched twice in a row, allowing me to win.
Rose and I had played for the next hour, each winning as much as losing. She shot pool like she investigated a crime, methodically, with a single-mindedness that bordered on obsessive, occasionally taking a risky shot. Working on a hunch, she’d told me with a grin. Just felt like that ball belonged in that pocket.
“D-Dylan.”
Her voice was weak and raspy, something rattling deep inside, skin a waxy gray.
That first night, after we were tired of playing pool, we’d gone across the street for burgers. We’d talked for hours, both of us surprised at how well we got along.
I blinked sweat out of my eyes. There was more blood on my hands. A commotion nearby. Voices, the squawk of a radio.
A uniformed police officer appeared in front of me, a woman in her twenties, gun drawn.
Behind her was another officer, a man about the same age, pistol in his hand.
“Call an ambulance.” I dropped my cell, used both hands on the wound. “She’s in shock, lost a lot of blood.”
“Step away from the body,” the officer said.
“What?” I didn’t move. My skin felt clammy.
“Sir, move away from the body.”
“Get an EMT, dammit.” I looked down at Rose. “She nee—”
The blood had stopped flowing from the wound by her collarbone.
I touched her chin, eased her head so she was looking up, her hair falling away from her face. One eye was open. The other was missing because that was where the second bullet had hit.
“R-Rose?” I struggled to catch my breath.
She must have died instantly, which made no sense because I had heard her call my name. Or thought I had.
The officer pointed to a spot a few feet away.
A revolver I’d never seen lay in the dust.
“Is that your gun?” she asked.