Tara Sivec: Shame on Him

Well, no wonder he’s living in a hovel. It looks like he hasn’t showered in months. Was his anger with Richard Covington enough to make him commit murder?

“Do you have any idea who could have killed him?” I ask, fishing for answers. I’m sure it’s not going to be as easy as this guy coming right out and confessing, but you never know.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. I hated that lying sack of shit, but I’m not a murderer. Richard wanted me out of the way because I knew all of his little secrets. You want to know who killed Richard Covington? Ask his—”

Andrew’s voice is cut off by erupting gunshots. I feel a pain in my cheek like someone sliced it with a knife and watch Andrew’s eyes widen in shock. My instincts kick into high gear and I immediately dive forward, slamming into Andrew and crashing to the ground on top of him in the doorway. More shots are fired, blowing out all of his windows. Shards of glass and slivers of wood from bullets slamming into the doorframe are raining down on top of us. I roll off of him, and with my head low, crawl as quickly as I can into the house. I glance behind me to make sure Andrew is following and see him still lying in the doorway.

“ANDREW! MOVE!” I scream as I scurry behind the couch and press my back up against it. I reach into my coat pocket for my cell phone and realize I left it back in my car.

After what feels like an eternity, the sound of gunfire stops. I slowly poke my head out from behind the couch and see that Andrew still hasn’t moved. I feel something sticky and wet on the front of me and when I glance down, I see that Paige’s white shirt is covered in blood. Since I’m pretty sure that blood isn’t mine, I know I need to go over and check on Andrew. Swallowing my nausea down, I get back on my hands and knees and inch my way toward him, holding my breath and listening for the sound of a gun going off again.

Right now, all I hear is a ringing in my ears from the gunshots, and my heart thudding loudly. As I get closer to him, I feel shards of glass slicing into my palms and knees, but I ignore the pain. All I’m focused on is the man lying on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Please, not again. I can’t handle two dead bodies in one week.

I eventually make it to Andrew’s side and the first thing I see are several bullet holes in his chest. His sweatshirt is now not only stained with beer and food but his blood as well. It seeps out of the holes in his chest and blooms on the sweatshirt in one giant bloodred circle.

With a shaking hand, I reach out and press two fingers against the side of his neck. I wait for the beat of his heart against my fingers, but nothing happens.

Realizing that my fingers are pressed up against the neck of a dead body, I snatch my hand away and scramble backward until my shoulder hits the wall. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and stare unblinking at the man I was just talking to moments ago.

Someone shot him. Someone shot at me. He was getting ready to tell me something important and was cut off by bullets to the chest before he could finish his sentence. Someone out there must have been following me and they didn’t want Andrew to talk.

This is not good. Not good at all.

Lorelei. Come on, snap out of it, baby. Look at me.”

The voice registers in my brain but it doesn’t make sense. That voice wouldn’t be talking to me this nicely. He’d also never call me “baby.”

I feel warm hands on my face and my head is turned so I’m no longer staring at Andrew Jameson’s dead body. Now I’m staring at a well-muscled chest in a tight blue shirt. My eyes slowly travel up and I see Dallas staring at me with a worried expression, his thumb wiping away at something on my cheek.

“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding. Breathe, Lorelei.”

At his command, I let out a shaky breath and suddenly feel tears pooling in my eyes. I blink rapidly, refusing to let them fall. I don’t know what Dallas is doing here or why he’s being so nice to me, but I will absolutely not fall apart in front of him. That will only give him more ammunition.

Glancing around, I realize it’s gotten dark. The sun was setting when I pulled up to Andrew’s house. I must have been sitting here for a while. I remember sitting against the wall, afraid to go outside in case the shooter was still out there.

Everything comes rushing back at once. Talking to Andrew, a few seconds away from him telling me who killed Richard, and then gunshots. I wasn’t even scared at the time—I must have been moving on pure adrenaline. But now the breaths are leaving my lungs quickly. Too quickly. I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

Dallas turns my face back to him and bends his head lower so he’s looking directly in my eyes. “Don’t look over there. Just look at me. It’s okay. Nice and slow.”

Nice and slow. In and out. Don’t think about the fact that there’s another dead body just a few feet away from me or that Dallas has the most amazing gray eyes I’ve ever seen and they’re currently looking at me with gentle concern instead of irritation.

Dallas slides his hands off of my cheeks and I immediately miss their warmth. He reaches down and grabs both of my wrists, pulling my hands up and inspecting them.

“Fuck. Your hands are full of glass,” he curses as he gently starts plucking a few pieces out.

I look down and realize he’s right. I stare unblinking at the palms of my hands. They are covered in dots of blood and tiny shards of glass and they suddenly hurt like hell.

He lets go of one of my hands and quickly reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. He brings it up to the side of my face and presses it against my cheek. I flinch when it touches my skin and feel a small sting of pain.

“It’s all right—it’s just a small scratch. A bullet must have grazed you,” he says calmly.

The look on his face contradicts the softness in his tone. He’s clenching his teeth and a muscle ticks in his jaw. He’s probably angry with me that I came in here, acting like I knew what I was doing, and now a prime suspect is dead.

I want to defend myself, but I can’t make the words form. What if it was my fault? Maybe someone saw me leaving Stephanie’s house and they followed me here. What if I’m the reason Andrew Jameson is dead?

The distant sound of sirens pulls Dallas’s gaze away from mine and he quickly looks out the open door and then back to me.

“Hurry, get up.”

He grabs my arms and pulls me to my feet.

“The cops are going to be all over this place in ten minutes. You need to get the fuck out of here,” he tells me, pulling me toward the door.

“What? What are you talking about? I can’t leave,” I tell him, finally finding my voice and planting my feet firmly in place, refusing to move. “I just saw a man shot to death. A man that I was questioning in a murder investigation. I need to tell the police what happened.”

Dallas huffs in irritation, clenching my arm and trying to pull me closer to the door. Even though I’m a little confused by the careful way he handled me moments ago, it doesn’t escape my notice that right now all he cares about is getting me out of here. Judging by all of our interactions since we met, there’s only one possible explanation for his need to shove me out the door before anyone sees me.

“You just want the stupid glory all for yourself. I hate to break it to you, but I’M the one who found out about Andrew Jameson, not you. I got here first and you can’t stand that, can you?” I fire at him.

The sirens are getting closer and Dallas turns away from me to look out the front door once more.