These Deadly Games(92)

Andrew raised his hands like I was about to launch a shock bolt at his face, eyes wide as silver dollars. Blood streamed freely from the gash in his arm, and he gripped it again, grimacing. “You don’t want to die, either.”

“Obviously. But I would. I’d do it to save my sister. You don’t think I’d sacrifice myself to save her? To save my friends? Then you wasted all these months, because you don’t know me at all.”

He clenched his jaw, obviously trying to think of some way out of this.

“Let’s play a game.” I tried for a mocking tone, but my voice shook so hard I could barely pull it off. “It’s called Exploding Murderers. Call the police and tell them everything that’s happened, and exactly where Caelyn is, or else we both go up in flames. You have one minute.”

His chest puffed out like he was holding his breath. If he confessed, he’d never get to finish his game. All his diligent plans would crash like a blue screen of death.

“Ticktock!” I shouted, tightening my grip on the lighter. “Fifty-five. Fifty-four. Better get to your phone.”

“If you think I’m turning myself in, you’re nuts.”

“If you think I’m letting you get away with this, you’re nuts. Thirty-five, thirty-four—”

“It hasn’t been twenty seconds—”

“I’m setting the rules now!” I shrieked. My whole body trembled, but I was absolutely ready to burn it all down.

He knitted his brow and glanced down the stairs. Then at the blood streaming through his fingers as he clutched his arm. Then back at me. Calculating. Always calculating. “Fine. I’m going.”

I followed him down the stairs, training the knife on him in case he tried any funny business. When we reached the foyer, I could see his phone sitting on the couch next to his laptop in the living room. All he had to do was call the police, and this game would end. I wouldn’t have won, exactly. There was no winning—not after losing Matty and Akira, and hurting Randall’s dad. Not after Caelyn and Zoey were traumatized, probably for life. But at least it would be over.

But Andrew’s knees buckled, and he collapsed in the middle of the foyer.

I leaped back, and my heart shot into my throat. What the hell was he trying to pull? Was he going to grab my ankles? Pull me to the ground? Wrestle the lighter away from me? “Get up!” I screamed.

He raised a bloodied hand at me and shook his head as though trying to clear it. “I-I can’t.” Blood dripped from his arm, pooling onto the wooden floor. How the hell was there so much blood? His eyes were unfocused. Wide. Scared.

I regretted stabbing him so aggressively. A small slice would have gotten him to drop the lighter. But adrenaline and anger had raged through my veins, and I was so scared he’d keep me from Caelyn—I’d driven the knife upward with all my strength.

Could that wound really kill him?

I didn’t want him to die—not even after everything he’d done. Because I wasn’t him. Death never justified more death. And true justice would be living with the guilt of what he’d done.

I knelt next to him. “Take off your belt.”

“What?”

“You need a tourniquet. Take off your jacket, too.”

His eyes darted between mine, his expression softer than before. More like the Dylan I thought I knew. “You … you want to help me?”

“I’m not a complete monster,” I snapped, inadvertently repeating his own words. He stared, astonished. Not wanting him to get the idea he deserved my compassion, I changed tack. “And you can’t tell the police the truth if you’re dead.” I tried sounding tough, but my voice trembled, and tears welled in my eyes.

I felt for him, somehow. I didn’t believe his claim that he wasn’t a monster—he’d killed two people, and meant to kill four, maybe five—but anguish, grief, and guilt had turned him into one.

He slipped off his jacket, groaning as the material slid past the wound. “It’s okay.” The comforting words automatically slipped from my lips, and he threw me another bewildered look as he went for his belt. But then he sucked air through his teeth.

“Here.” I set the lighter and knife on the floor behind me, out of Andrew’s reach, and unbuckled his belt myself. My cheeks went hot, more from mortification and discomfort than anything else, and I tried not to think of our kiss this morning. “A scarf or something would be better, to make the tourniquet tighter.”

“I … I don’t have one. There might be one upstairs—”

“It’s okay.” I yanked the belt from the loops. It was soft suede, flexible. “This might work, actually.” I looped it around his upper arm, and rather than pulling the end through the buckle, I tied a knot like Mom had taught me. The tourniquet had to be tight, really tight, to work. I tied a second knot a bit above the first.

“Uh…” I glanced around, the room spinning faster than I turned my head. I was getting dizzy, so dizzy. “I need a stick or something to wedge between the knots and twist it tight.” The knife was sturdy and straight, but I might cut myself by accident. Andrew was losing blood fast, so fast—his face had paled, and the puddle growing beneath him was startlingly large. I undid the second knot and tightened the first, straining to put enough pressure on the artery to stop the blood flow.