Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“One night, I was at another girl’s house for a sleepover. I didn’t want to go, but Arlene was the daughter of one of Ronald’s powerful friends, and he insisted. She wasn’t very well-liked at school and didn’t have many friends, so they made me go. I wasn’t feeling well, and it got worse. I called home to ask my mother to come get me. But they had gone out with some associates of Ronald’s, so Ollie said he’d come get me. I told him he couldn’t because he wasn’t supposed to drive and Ronald would be furious, but he said he didn’t care. I was more important than his dad’s stupid punishment.”
Her hands began to fidget again, her gaze flying around the room. She drew her legs up to her chest in a defensive manner, and I rubbed her calves, trying not to notice how her smooth skin felt under my hands. I pushed aside the physical reaction I felt to her and concentrated on her words.
“What happened?”
“I was feeling sick to my stomach. Ollie pulled into a gas station to get a ginger ale for me.”
“And?”
She inhaled, a long, shaky breath. Her fingers tore at her sleeves, and I reached up to still them.
“I’m right here. It’s a memory—it can’t hurt you.”
She nodded and continued. “Ollie went inside. He was taking a long time, and I followed. I was afraid if I stayed in the car, I’d be sick. He was standing with his back to the door, and there were two men inside plus the clerk and Ollie—they seemed to be arguing.” She swallowed several times, her pale face now ashen. “When I opened the door, there was a huge commotion. Ollie was screaming for me to run and I heard some loud noises, then I was on the floor, Ollie on top of me. He was bleeding, and when I looked up, I saw one man had a gun. He had shot Ollie, who had jumped in front of me.”
“Jesus—”
I was horrified listening to her story. Ally kept talking, tears running down her cheeks as she spoke.
“Then the clerk pulled out a gun and shot the robbers. One crumpled to the floor in front of me, dead. The one who shot Ollie was hurt, but he survived.”
I already knew the answer, but I asked her anyway. “Ollie?”
“The clerk called 9-1-1, and I tried to help him. But he died before they arrived.”
I shut my eyes at her pain. I could only imagine what she had witnessed. The boy she loved as a brother dying in front of her and another man shot dead, too.
“There was so much blood.” Her voice shook. “I felt as if I was swimming in it. I kept pressing on his chest to stop it. His last words to me were ‘I’m sorry, Princess.’”
“Ally—”
She kept speaking, almost as if I weren’t there. “The police arrived, and they got hold of Ronald and my mother. They came to the hospital. Ronald had to identify Ollie’s body, and I told the police what I saw. I heard them say it was a miracle the other bullets from the gun hadn’t hit me. I don’t know how long we were there—I think I was in shock.”
“Of course you were. You had just witnessed two men die.”
She could have been dead too.
“They took me home, but nobody said anything to me. I was sent to my room and told to clean up.” Her voice dropped. “I had thrown up and had Ollie’s blood all over me, and some from the other man too. One of the nurses was very kind and tried to clean me up, but I was still a mess.”
“Your mother didn’t help you? Didn’t comfort you?”
“No.”
The one word said so much. I reached for her hand, holding it to my face.
“Were you hurt?”
“I had bruises and I was sick and scared, but no, not hurt.”
“You were traumatized, though.”
“I survived, Adam.” She clutched her shirt, whispering.
I frowned at her tone. Her words were saturated in guilt—but why?
“Thank God.” She’d experienced something horrific, and I had the feeling it was something she never talked about. Something she wasn’t allowed to talk about.
“It was my fault.”
I gaped at her. “What? How the fuck can you say that?”
“It was all my fault. I never should have called and asked Ollie to pick me up. I shouldn’t have asked for the ginger ale. He wouldn’t have left the house that night if it weren’t for me.”
“No, Ally—that is so wrong. You can’t possibly blame yourself for what happened.”
“Ronald told me repeatedly it was my fault. He blames me to this day. Because of me, his son was dead. My mother agreed with him.”
“He was wrong,” I insisted, tamping down my anger at her unfeeling parents. They had heaped this burden on her for all these years? Took a horrible situation and blamed her to the point she accepted that responsibility? It was inconceivable to me.