The Speed of Light: A Novel(49)

We’re silent again, and I will myself to be supportive—I can’t seriously hold something against Connor from before I even knew him. And yet the selfish pang of jealousy persists—and I realize now that their breakup is surely the reason everything went to hell his senior year.

But I push through it, squeeze his hand, wait out the storm. And when he opens his eyes, they’re the same clear, true eyes I’ve been staring into all these months.

“Then I met you,” he says softly. “And it was like . . . a miracle.”

My breath catches and I smile. “Really?”

“Of course. Suddenly, in the middle of a snowstorm”—he smiles—“there’s this kind, smart, beautiful woman who is somehow into me.” His smile quickly fades. “But with Cam, I should’ve called a cab; I should’ve made sure he had cash for a ride. I should’ve been there. It’s why I haven’t had a drink since.” He winces. “Until tonight.”

“Connor, it wasn’t your fault,” I whisper.

His chuckle is bitter. “Well, you are about the only one who thinks that. Everybody else—my sister-in-law; her family; even my parents, to some degree, I think, at least the way they look at me sometimes. Everybody knows I screwed up.”

I reach for his face, gently turn it toward me. “And what do you think your brother would say?” Connor’s brow furrows, and I hold my breath—I didn’t know Cam at all and have no idea where this question has come from, but it seems right.

He stares at me for a moment, pained eyes glistening, then finally shakes his head with a sad smile. “He would probably tell me to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself.”

We chuckle together and I lean forward, kissing him softly, and he folds me into his embrace. After a few moments, I pull back, force a bright smile. “I did pack my laptop. We could watch a movie, if you want.”

He smiles. “Return of the Jedi?”

“Absolutely.” I snuggle back under the covers. “I might watch it with my eyes closed, though.”

He laughs, then gets up to find the laptop. When he returns with it, he sits next to me on the bed again, one hand in mine as the opening theme starts to play. As I drift off he leans close, kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear: “I love you.”

A shiver of electricity, a jolt of happiness, pure warmth and joy. The theme song blares bold and confident, and I smile. “I know.”





PART SEVEN

REVELATION





Monday, December 6, 10:06 a.m.

Pure terror courses through me as I place a trembling hand on Nikki’s chest. But it rises, then falls. A sob escapes my lips.

She’s alive.

On my computer, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” starts blasting from my cheap old speakers—it sure as hell is not wonderful, but the lively tune spurs me into motion. I jump up, pull Hayley from the doorframe (where she stands frozen), then slam the door shut and press in the silver lock. I’m finally following active shooter protocol: If you can’t get out, find somewhere safe, lock the door, and barricade it.

In my mind, Officer Jackson’s voice lectures me from our training exercise: Everyone has better odds if you get out, get yourself somewhere safe, and call for help.

But this isn’t a training exercise. This is real.

This is my best friend’s life on the line.

“Help me!” I bark, and Hayley finally tears her eyes away from Nikki. Together we grab my bookshelf and wrench it in front of the door. Then I turn to my desk, eyes landing on my phone.

A moan creeps up from the floor, and Hayley gasps as she scrambles into the corner, but I rush to Nikki and drop to my knees. “Nik!” I need to stop the bleeding—but I still haven’t called for help. I’m failing on so many levels, but I can’t get my mind to slow down and focus. My legs flare, pins and needles all up and down, and a wave of dizziness hits.

No. Not now.

I have to get through this. Please, God, just let me save her.

I draw in a deep breath and look down at my legs. “I’m ignoring you.” An absurd placebo of the mind, but I’m barely hanging on. From the corner, a whimper—Hayley, hand covering her mouth. “I need your help.” Hayley obeys, too shell-shocked to argue, and I kneel next to Nikki again. “I’m going to turn you over so I can put pressure on your wound, okay?” She murmurs something, and as we turn her over, she cries out in pain. “I’m sorry!” But even when Hayley shrinks back, I don’t stop.

Nikki’s chest glistens a deep, almost blackish red, but it’s not the sight of it that gets me—I’ve seen bullet wounds so often on TV that it’s almost surreal. It’s the rusty-sweet smell, the squish of the warm liquid through my fingers as I press down on her wound, that makes me shudder. Nikki groans but I don’t ease up—I have no idea what I’m doing, but this is my chance to stop the bleeding, or at least slow it until help arrives.

Help.

I whip my head to my desk, where both my cell phone and cordless landline sit. “Hayley, I need you to get both of my phones for me, okay?” She crawls forward, grabs them, then hands them out to me. I take the receiver with one hand but keep my other on Nikki’s midsection. “Open the university’s Twitter on my cell—we have to let people know.”