Hit by Delilah S. Dawson

Author:Delilah S. Dawson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

7.

Tom Morrison

I’m exhausted but filled with nervous energy, still too spooked to talk. Without a word to Wyatt, I pick up my yarn bag and grab a ball of black yarn to add to the flagpole scarf. I stare into space as my needles click furiously, row after row of tight stitches appearing from thin air.

Wyatt watches me for a few minutes and says, “I’m going across the street to Subway. You want anything?”

“I just can’t,” I say, and he nods once and leaves.

My stitches are so taut that the flagpole scarf pulls in at the ­middle, like it’s wearing a black corset. With a sigh that turns into a groan, I set the needles down before I ruin it. I want to finish this piece and get it up on the flagpole before my assignment is over. For some reason, it’s really important to me that it gets done. Like some small part of me thinks everything will change afterward, and I just want to finish one thing for myself, instead of taking care of a big, stupid bank’s bloody business.

Speaking of which, there’s a blood smudge on the floor where Matty fell over. I scrounge up some fast-food napkins from the trash and try to wipe it clean, but I need something wet, because it’s all crusty and I don’t have any saliva left to lick the napkins. By the time Wyatt gets back and erupts from between the front seats with a plastic sack and two large drinks, I’m scratching at the bloodstain with my bare fingers, crying.

“Out, damned spot?” he says with a frightened chuckle.

All I can do is growl at him, a ragged, feral sound that starts in what used to be my heart.

Gently, his hands catch mine and hold them still.

“Don’t do this,” he says, his cheek warm against mine. “It’s not your fault.”

“Everything is my fault.”

“No. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Valor. It’s this big, faceless corporation that’s using dirty tricks to make you do horrible things.”

“But those guys back there . . .” I trail off with a sob.

“They were going to hurt you, Patsy. I mean, this is kind of my fault.”

I glance up in surprise. “What? Why?”

“I saw them whisper and go into their front door, and I thought I didn’t have to worry about them. I just figured they were dumbass tweakers. And they snuck right out the back door and trapped you in that hell house.” His hands rotate around mine, from holding them away from the bloodstain to holding them gently and warmly. “Jesus, I’m so sorry that I let that happen.”

“Not your fault,” I whisper.

“Then we both agree it’s neither of our faults,” he says, and he trips over it like it doesn’t make sense grammatically or seriously. “Shake on it?”

“You’re already holding my hand,” I mumble, and he smiles and shakes both of my hands like a dork before sheepishly letting them go. They drop to my lap, useless. That’s when I realize that the

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