The Romance Revival(94)

He lifts his head in a terse nod but doesn’t answer.

Pleased, Claire turns back to Emery. “I just wonder what to do with you now.”

“Vince,” Emery pleads, “there’s still time to fix this. Help me. I promise I won’t tell anyone what you did.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” Claire says, laughing. “Let’s say you somehow managed to convince him and he somehow managed to get you out of this—you’re telling me you’d protect the man who plotted to kill your husband?”

“Yes,” she says, voice tight. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Vince looks up at her and their eyes lock. I swear for a second—

My attention is pulled away by a flash of movement near the door leading to the outer office. Careful to avoid being seen, I watch the gap between the door and the frame and… I see it again.

Someone’s there.

Annie and Crash and… Betty?

“I don’t think so,” I hear Claire say, and look back to see her motioning with the gun for Emery to join me. “Over there.”

“Vince, this isn’t you,” Emery pleads. “I saw how hard you worked on the first-gen BioSCAN. You care about saving people. I know you do.”

“He cares about the people who are paying him. And to prove it—” Claire turns, handing him her gun. “Take care of them, Vince.”

Vince stares down at the weapon, turning it over in his hand before finally lifting a shaking arm and pointing it at Emery.

“Told you,” Claire says with a victorious smile.

Em trembles next to me, her fingers clutching my shoulder. “Please,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Vince says finally, and then turns the gun on Claire. “Untie him, Emery.”

What?

Emery reaches behind me, frantically working to get my hands free. “I’ve got you,” she whispers urgently.

“Vince, don’t be an idiot,” Claire is saying. “Think about how much money you’re getting. If you fuck this up, you know what will happen. There’s no way out of this that doesn’t end w—”

There’s a crash from the outer room and Vince lowers the gun just long enough for Claire to lunge for it. Everything else seems to happen in slow motion. Someone rushes out of the office and jumps on Vince’s back. He shouts and starts to fall back. Claire aims the gun in my direction, but Emery sees it, too, throwing herself in front of me.

I’ve only heard guns on TV, a series of ricocheting blasts that echo long after the shot is discharged. But this is a heavy pop, a noise that cuts through the air with such force it leaves a haunting, reverberating silence in its wake.

Screams pierce that silence. Vince is on the ground. Claire is next to him, clutching her leg where red blooms across the fabric of her pants. Betty shot her. Betty. A handful of police officers rush into the room, and Crash, who must’ve been the one to jump on Vince’s back, materializes at my side with something to free my hands and feet. I tear the tape off my mouth, wanting to reach for Emery but she’s turned away, hunched over.

That’s when it hits me. I heard two shots, not one.

“Em?” I say, and she turns slowly, hands over her stomach and eyes downward like she’s not sure what she’s seeing.

I follow her gaze, and my breath is snatched from my lungs. Blood, so much blood. I rush to her just as her knees give way, catching her before she hits the ground.

“Emery. No, no, honey.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to leave me,” she says, and I’m already shaking my head.

“Never, not for one second did I want to leave.”

Emery smiles but her eyes are heavy and unfocused.

“Don’t leave me, Emery Martín,” I say, pressing my hands to her gushing wound. “Don’t you fucking dare. We just found each other again. You can’t leave me here alone.”

Annie runs to my side, and I look up to see her standing over us with a syringe in her hand. “Not on my fucking watch,” she says, lifting her arms before plunging the syringe down into Emery’s chest.





47 HER




Given that I’d spent most of my career thinking about death, one would think I’d be more excited when it actually happened to me.

But in reality, my first thought upon waking is: I need coffee.

My second: Just my luck. Of course there are alarm clocks in the afterlife.

But God, it’s so dark. And if it’s this dark, why is my alarm going off?

There are other sounds, too. A mechanical whoosh, and voices too far away to identify. Warmth seeps into my extremities and there’s almost an itch, an awareness that I’m supposed to be doing something. A to-do list, even in the afterlife. It gets stronger, a rising panic until I— —suck in a breath.

The beeping is louder, more persistent. It takes me a few tries to get the words out, my voice thin and strange to my ears. “Can someone hit snooze?”

“I think she said something,” the man says. “Emery?”

When the alarm doesn’t stop, I reach for it myself, but my arm doesn’t seem to be cooperating. It barely twitches at my side. Am I dead or are my blankets just too tight?

“Let’s bring her up,” a woman’s voice says. “Can you dim the lights?”