The Arrangement Anthology 2(112)
Trystan opens his mouth, as if he’s ready to tell Logan off, but the doctor grabs him by the wrist and shoves him into an empty room before he can say much. The door swings shut behind them and yelling ensues, but it’s too muffled to make out.
Mari looks me over, her eyes dipping to my ripped costume and dried blood. “Are you hurt?”
Lip quivering, I shake my head and tug Trystan’s jacket tighter around my waist. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Come and let me look you over.”
I shake my head again, unable to speak. It feels like I’ve stabbed this woman in the back. I can’t take advantage of her kindness. It’s wrong.
“I probably shouldn’t ask, but I have to know—Are you with him?” Her lips press together and twitch, like she’s trying to smile, but can’t.
I can’t answer her. The look on her face is horrible, like I drove a lance through her chest. She still loves Trystan, I’m sure of it, but Trystan’s here with me. I blink rapidly and wipe at my eyes. “No, I’m not.” After a pause, I tell her, “Make sure Sean doesn’t leave. He’s going to be pissed when he realizes he’s in the hospital. He hates this place. Please help him. I should go.”
She reaches out for me, but hesitates. Her fingers don’t touch my shoulder as she’d planned. Her hand hovers there for a second. “Wait!” I turn back to look at her. “Is he all right? Trystan, I mean.”
I nod once, even though he’s not. He needs her, but I have no idea what their story is or why they’re apart. Mari’s gaze lowers and she smiles. “I’m glad he’s with you, then. You seem like you’d be good for him.”
“I’m not with him.” My voice is unsteady and slight. Mari looks at me like she knows better. My gaze drops, before managing to force a smile. “Yeah, I guess everything happens for a reason, right?”
“I suppose so.”
I’ve believed that up until this point, but after Sean taking a bullet for me and running into Trystan’s ex, I don’t see how the night could get worse. That’s when I hear the newscaster. Slowly, I turn and look up at the TV. “Marty Masterson has been identified as the possible shooter at Madison Square Garden at this evening’s Trystan Scott concert. The NYPD is conducting a citywide manhunt as we speak.”
Chapter 3
Bob rushes toward me. He sees it happening before I feel it. Suddenly, my head is light and I know I’m going to topple over. Trystan’s bodyguard catches me in his beefy arms as I sway. I cling to his huge bicep and stammer, “Marty? Did she say Marty did this?” I saw the gun in his hand, at least I thought I did, but I kept thinking I was wrong—I had to be wrong.
With everything that happened, I won’t allow the truth to surface in my mind. I can’t handle it. Marty is one of my best friends and in the seconds proceeding the shooting, it made sense that all those people were killed because of me.
“Miss Stanz, you need to lie down.” Bob tries to steady me, but I swat at him uncertain of what I need or want.
I’m going to fall apart. I can’t handle this. Sean won’t see me, Mari is Trystan’s old flame, and Marty is a homicidal maniac. No! This can’t be right.
“I’m fine.” I stare at my nails feeling betrayal seep into my heart, even though I can’t accept what I’m hearing on the television. Marty is my best friend, how could he do this to me? I start shifting puzzle pieces together. That means he killed Amber and Naked Guy, and all the others. He kept aiming for me, or Sean, and they got in the way.
Mari says soothing words, but I can’t hear her. My heart is thumping in my ear, blaring like a train horn burst after burst. “Avery.” She says my name loudly, and I glance at her. “Come lie down.”
I shake my head and step back. Lifting my hands, I say, “I can’t. I have to go. Sean doesn’t want me here anyway. I heard Logan. Just keep him safe. Promise me.”
Mari looks confused. By the time she figures out that I was here for Sean, not Trystan, I’m gone. Darting through the front doors, I shove my way past the cameras and blaring lights. I answer no one, and don’t stop until I’m in the parking lot and standing in front of Trystan’s Hummer. I yank the door open and climb inside.
The driver recognizes me. Looking in the rearview mirror he asks, “Will Mr. Scott be joining us?”
“No, not tonight. Please drive me to Babylon Station, and then come back here.”
His brow lifts at the odd request. “The train station?”
“Yeah. I can find my way from there.” I don’t want to explain where I’m going. It’s not my home anymore, but my brain doesn’t seem to know that. When my life crashes and burns to ashes, I end up sitting on the curb watching the sun peek over the treetops. It soothes me when nothing else can, when Jones Beach or the cemetery come up short.