Page 81 of Forever Only Once

It wasn’t just on my soul, it was on every inch of my body, on every ounce of breath I held within me.

Chris had burned the shop to the ground, the gasoline he used only a small accelerant to what was already inside the building. After all they used wood for their work. The place was gone, so much of Cross’s livelihood and work gone in an instant.

And if Macon hadn’t crawled his way out of the building to try and find me, to attempt to get help, he would probably be dead, too.

But Frank and the others had found him. This miraculous man named Frank, who had kept Macon alive until the paramedics showed up.

Now, Macon was in surgery, the doctors doing their best to repair the bullet wound in his chest.

No one was in the room with me, so I didn’t know how it had all turned out. Didn’t know if he was even out of surgery yet. Was Macon out and healthy, or would the Bradys have to say goodbye to their son?

To their brother. Their friend.

The detectives had told me that Cross was in surgery too, another doctor sewing up one of that family. Of everyone in that cabin, I was the only one without a bullet in my body.

It didn’t matter that I had bruised ribs, or that I was lucky I hadn’t broken my cheekbone or my jaw. It didn’t matter that I would have a black eye for a week or that my entire body felt as if I had been pummeled over and over.

It didn’t matter that I had bandages around my wrists from where I had pulled against my restraints so hard that the ropes had dug into my skin, leaving bloody gashes behind.

None of that mattered.

Here I was, healthy and whole, but I was a murderer.

Others were dying or dead because of me.

And I had no idea how to change that.

“I’m fine,” I said, though I knew it was a lie.

My voice was hoarse, my tongue swollen from when I’d bitten it during the fall.

I would have to get my hair cut because Chris and Thomas had pulled so hard that I had lost clumps, my scalp bloody from it.

All these things spun in my head at the same time, and I couldn’t focus.

“What are you thinking about?” Dakota asked, moving toward me.

I raised my chin slightly and tried to act like I was steady.

I didn’t even know what the word meant anymore.

“I want to go home,” I whispered.

And hide there until I could breathe again. Could think.

“You can do that soon. They’re going to let you out since you don’t need to be held for observation. But let’s talk about it. Or not. Whatever you need, we’re here.”

I looked at Myra, and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think.

“I just want to go home,” I repeated.

“We’re here for you. We love you.”

I shook my head.

“He got hurt because of me,” I whispered.

“Cross? No,” Paris snapped.