City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(95)

I know this shirt.

Blinking hard, I rise up on my knees until my face is inches from hers. Only then do I see more than a pale blur. I see Diana’s face.

Her eyes are open, and she’s staring right at me, but she doesn’t seem to see me. She hacks, doubling over, and her coughing ignites mine, and it’s a beacon for Dalton. His hands grab my shoulders and yank me back.

“No!” I croak. “Di—”

I can’t even get the rest out. I’m coughing too hard, and he’s picking me up, running for the exit, and I can’t fight, don’t dare. There’s no way to communicate, and every second lost is a second we don’t have.

He kicks the door open and we’re through. Then he throws me to the ground. Literally throws me, like a sack of flour. I hit the grass, knife falling from my hand as I’m hacking and groaning, half blinded by the smoke. I twist around and say, “Di—”

But he’s gone back for her, and I shout, “No!” and push to my feet. I’ll get her. I’ll do it. I’ll take that risk. I don’t want him taking it for her. I don’t want anyone else taking it for her after what she’s done.

It’s too late. He’s inside, and I’m left stumbling toward the shed, hacking so hard I can barely move. I reach the door, and I pull it open, and I’m about to go in when I hear running footfalls. Anders appears, others following, brought by the smoke seeping through the cracks.

They see the smoke billowing from the open door. Anders is on me, scooping me up to get me away from the fire.

“No,” I croak. “Eric.”

“Eric’s—? Fuck!” He sets me down as fast as he can, shouting, “Get Beth! Now!” but I’m right behind him.

He vanishes into the smoke before I make it. Then I see him again, a stumbling figure. I leap to grab him, to direct him, but I realize it’s not Anders. It’s Dalton, with Diana over his shoulder. He manages one last step and collapses. Then Anders is there, thank God, and he’s grabbing Diana as she falls, and I have both hands wrapped in Dalton’s shirt, dragging him farther from the door. Anders shouts, and someone’s there to help me. I don’t even look up to see who it is.

We manage to get Dalton out of the smoke and away from the inferno pouring through that open doorway. I put out the fire on his shirt and jeans. That’s when I realize he still isn’t moving.

He’s not breathing.

I start CPR. I don’t even think whether I remember it well enough. I start and then Anders is there, saying, “I can do that,” and I say, between breaths, “Am I doing it wrong?” and he gives a strained chuckle and says, “No.”

“Chest,” I say. “Take over—”

“Chest compressions. Okay. But if you need me to—”

“Got it.”

“You’ve swallowed a lot of—”

“Got it.”

I might have barely been breathing a minute ago, but all that evaporates as I focus on my task. Breath-one-two. Nothing.

Goddamn it, Dalton!

Anders’s chest compressions are hard enough to crack a rib, but I say nothing. The look in his eyes tells me he’s freaking out. Hell, we both are. I let him continue his compressions and tell myself a cracked rib is nothing.

My turn. Breath-one-two.

Goddamn—!

Dalton coughs.

We flip him over fast, and Dalton coughs up smoke-blackened mucus. He’s on all fours, supporting himself, waving Anders away when he tries to help.

“Oh my God,” a voice says. Footsteps run over and I look up to see Beth, her eyes wide with panic. “Eric!”

“Mick’s dead,” he says, his hand going up when she tries to kneel beside him. “Check Diana. Then Casey. I’m fine.”

“You are not—”

“Diana first,” he says with enough snap that I wince as Beth flinches. “Then Casey. I’m fine.”

She backs up, looking confused and hurt, until Anders leads her to Diana.

“You okay?” Dalton asks me as he sits.

“I’m not the one who passed out.”

“I’m not the one who caught on fire,” he says, and reaches out to catch a lock of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers, the singed pieces raining down.

“It’ll grow.” I cough. “Shouldn’t have gone back in.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have.”

“I mean you. She—” I hack again, hard enough that I feel like I’m going to cough up lung tissue. He thumps my back and looks toward Beth, but she’s busy with Diana, so I say I’m fine, then, “She killed Mick. Diana. I—” I look over at the knife, the blade covered in blood. “She was holding that, and she had her hand on a gas can. The blood on her shirt … I don’t think it’s hers. I tried to tell you.”

“Would you have stayed out?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Hell, no, you wouldn’t. So I’d have gone in anyway. We have no idea what happened in there, Casey. An hour ago, we were considering Mick a suspect.”

I stop. Blink. I just jumped to the conclusion that Diana murdered a man when I have no idea if that’s what happened. Mick could be the killer and Diana saved herself from becoming his next victim, and all I thought was, She’s guilty. My best friend. The woman I’ve known half my life.