The Long Game (The Fixer #2)(28)

The hallway was empty except for me, the door to the library slightly ajar.

What is that sound?

That was when I saw the liquid oozing out from underneath the door. At first I thought it was water, but then I realized. It’s red. My heart thudded in my chest. I took a step toward the door. Red—it’s red—thick—

The door creaked, and something spilled into the hallway. It took me a moment to recognize the shape as human and another to recognize it as John Thomas Wilcox. Hands. Feet. Eyes. Mouth. All the parts were there, but the whole . . .

Red. Red on his chest. Red on his hands.

The horrible gurgling sound was coming from him.

I leapt forward, jarred out of my horror by the realization that if he was gurgling, if he was wheezing—he was still alive. My brain flipped into hyper gear. His white shirt was soaked in blood beneath his Hardwicke blue blazer. I ripped the blazer open, looking for a wound.

“Help!” The word ripped its way out of my throat, savage and raw. “Somebody, help!”

John Thomas’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, that horrible gurgling sound punctuating each gasp.

I tore off my own blazer and pressed it to his chest. Stop the bleeding. Have to stop the bleeding. I yelled for help again. I screamed for it.

“Shot.” John Thomas choked out the word.

He’s been shot.

“It’s okay,” I told him, lying through my teeth. “You’re going to be okay.”

I could feel his blood on my hands. I could smell it.

“Tell.” He managed another word. The gasping increased.

I kept applying pressure with one hand and grabbed my phone out of my pocket with the other. My hand shaking, I dialed 911.

“Didn’t.” John Thomas gargled the word. He surged upward. He grabbed hold of my shirt. His eyes met mine. “Tell.”

A second later, he was sprawled back on the ground, his head lilting to one side, the floor below him soaked in blood.

“What is your emergency?”

On some level, I was aware that the 911 operator was talking on the other end of the phone line. On some level, I remembered making the call. But on another, baser level, all I could think about was the body.

The body that used to be John Thomas Wilcox but wasn’t anymore.

No more gasping. No more gurgling. His eyes were vacant.

“What is your emergency?”

“He’s dead.”

I didn’t even realize I’d spoken until the operator responded. “Who’s dead?”

“A boy at my school.” The words burned my throat. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. “Someone shot him. I . . . I tried to help . . . I yelled for help, but no one—”

“Miss, I need you to stay calm. I’ve got police en route. Do you see any indication that the shooter is still in the area?”

The hall was empty except for me and the body that wasn’t John Thomas anymore.

“Has anyone else at your school been shot?” the operator asked. “Is this a spree?”

I don’t know.

I wasn’t sure whether I just thought the words, or if I actually managed to say them, too. My hand dropped to my side, the phone with it.

Why hadn’t anyone come when I’d screamed?

What if John Thomas isn’t the only one? I thought. That was enough to spur me into motion. One second I was standing there, my limbs dead weight, and the next, my phone was on the floor, and I was running for the cafeteria.

For Henry and Vivvie.

I broke through the door into a room filled with unnatural stillness. People were huddled in groups. I could hear someone crying.

Multiple someones.

“Tess.”

I turned toward Henry’s voice. He was here. He was whole. I took a step toward him.

Henry’s fine. My brain struggled to process. They all are. No one was hurt. No one was screaming.

Henry made it to my side, his stride long and the expression on his face as intense as I’d ever seen it. Something gave inside me.

“Shot.” The first word I managed to form was the same one John Thomas had said to me. “Someone shot him.”

Henry reached for my shoulder. He squeezed it. “I know.”

Someone shot John Thomas Wilcox.

Henry knows.

“You know?” The words came out in a whisper.

“Everyone knows,” Henry told me, his voice taut. “I am so sorry. I know your families are close.”

Close? My brain struggled to parse what he was saying. Sorry?

Sorry that I had been the one to discover the body? Sorry that I yelled and yelled and no one came?

“Dead.” I meant to ask questions, but that was all that came out. “He’s dead, and—”

“You don’t know that,” Henry cut in.

Yes. I do.

“Tess.” An added layer of strain entered Henry’s voice. I followed his gaze down to my hands.

Blood. John Thomas’s blood on my hands. Dead. He’s dead—

“Tess,” Henry repeated, his voice soft, “what happened? Are you hurt?”

“No,” I said, and somehow, staring down at my bloody hands, Henry’s touch warm through my clothes, the dam broke, and words came rushing out at warp speed. “Someone shot him. I found the body. I yelled for help. I tried—”