The Row(75)

He catches my eye and attempts to smile. “Isn’t this the part in the scary movies where everyone dies or we find a skeleton or something?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen this one. It’s usually the girl in the bikini who dies first.” I gesture toward my jeans and purple striped T-shirt. “We should be safe.” I try to play it off, pretending I’m not as scared of what we could run into as he is.

Jordan puts on a brave smile, too, then shrugs. “Don’t be too sure, Riley. You don’t know what I’m wearing underneath this.” He points to his dark blue jeans and red shirt, then winks. A surprised laugh bursts from me at the imagery.

“Excellent point.” I squeeze his hand and think I see the grove we’re looking for up ahead. I whisper the rest. “Although, if you are wearing a bikini under that, I think there may be an entirely different discussion for us to have.”

We both freeze when I hear a woman’s voice yelling up ahead, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. My entire body breaks out in a cold sweat, and Jordan instinctively steps in front of me. As we jog a few steps closer, I see two figures in the grove where we are supposed to meet Mr. Masters. From this distance, it’s hard to tell, but they seem to be fighting.

My thoughts settle on one possible scenario: the woman is the next victim of Valynne’s killer, and maybe if we hurry, we can stop him from killing someone else. I glance at Jordan, and can see he’s thinking the same thing. We both break into a run.

Before we get to the grove, an earsplitting boom rends the air and Jordan and I dive toward each other, tumbling to the ground. My eardrums are vibrating and I keep staring at Jordan to make sure he’s okay. He seems to be doing the same thing with me.

When we realize we’re both fine, we crawl into the shadows of the nearest tree and peer through the branches as quietly as possible toward the grove.

Now there is only one figure standing—next to a large mound on the ground.

A gunshot? That isn’t the East End Killer’s M.O. My panicked mind searches for some other explanation as we move a few steps closer: a mugging gone wrong perhaps?

Should we run? Should we help?

Then pure fear slides through my veins as I realize that Mr. Masters should’ve been here already … that maybe he beat us here and one of the figures in the grove is him.

I hear footsteps and a woman runs into view. With her back toward us, I see a gun dangling from her fingers. Her entire body quivers. I gasp and grip Jordan’s arm.

Even from this angle, I would recognize her frizzy hair anywhere.

She turns at my gasp and lifts the shaking gun in my direction.

“Stacia,” I whisper, and Jordan immediately grabs my arm, trying to pull me back into the shadows behind him. I don’t move.

Her eyes are distant at first, then they focus in on me. Her blouse hangs oddly to one side, and her jacket is ripped. She has something rectangular clutched in her free hand, but I can’t make out what it is. She looks unkempt and wild in a way I’ve never seen her before, and she lowers the gun back to her side.

I hear people in the distance and she looks toward them. She pulls the rectangular package in against her chest before sprinting into the trees and toward the other end of the park. I watch her go, wondering if I should have stopped her and whether she was being attacked and needs help.

With my mind whirling, it’s only when her back disappears into the trees that my thoughts settle on the form on the ground and my whole world lurches to a stop.

“No … no, no, no!” My words begin as a whisper and end as a shout. Jordan reaches out to stop me, but I break free, running over to the body on the ground and praying again and again in my head for it not to be him.

When I reach the form, I roll him onto his back. Everything in me seems to lock up in one instant as I see those familiar blue eyes gazing up at me.

Jordan is by my side immediately, pushing his hands into the bloodstained shirt, trying to apply pressure to the wound in the center of his chest.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. How can this be happening? Stacia shot Mr. Masters? Why? Why?

Then the blue eyes blink and turn on me. Choking in a deep gasp of air, I lean down. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll get help.” I pull out my phone and begin to dial 9-1-1 with shaking fingers, but Mr. Masters pushes the phone out of my hand and it falls somewhere in the grass behind me. He seems like he wants to talk, but blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth when he opens it.

“No … don’t talk. Just wait until you’re better.” I sit beside him, hugging his head. “I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

Sitting back, I see a tear leak out the side of one of those blue eyes. Then they fill with an abrupt terror as he pulls me down again. Jordan still has his hands pressed against Mr. Masters’s wound, but I hover close over Mr. Masters, brushing one hand across his forehead.

He draws another rasping breath. It looks like it causes him extreme pain, and I choke on a sob.

Then he utters the one word he’s been trying so hard to tell me: “Run.”

My head shoots up, and I look around us, suddenly feeling a very different sort of fear, but there is no one else. The commotion of people in the distance is getting closer, but it’s only the three of us alone in this clearing. I lean back over this man who has always been there and whisper, “Shh. It’s okay.”