Chasing Impossible. Katie McGarry

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Logan

      There’s blood on my hands.

      Blood.

      Abby’s blood.

      I’m trembling. My blood sugar’s low or high or I don’t know. There’s nurses and doctors and people all around. I slam my hands on the desk. “I don’t give a rat’s ass I’m not blood-related. Her friends are her family so tell me how she is!”

      “If you don’t sit down, I’m calling security,” the woman behind the desk bellows.

      A body sliding in front of me, a hand on my arm, and I jerk as I’m being pulled away. Isaiah’s best friend, Noah, has his back to me and is talking to the receptionist. “He’s calm. We got this. No need to bring in security.”

      I called them. I called Isaiah. I said words. Words I don’t remember and Isaiah said he would be there. To hang tight. To not say a thing to anyone until he reached me.

      Isaiah consumes my vision. His hand is the one clamped on my bicep. “Come with me. Now.” He turns me and I walk.

      I glance over my shoulder and West is sauntering up to the counter. He flashes his cover-model smile and in his hand is folded cash. West’s a Young, son of the richest man in the state, and he’ll pay for the answers.

      Isaiah grips my neck, forcing my attention forward, and Noah’s on my other side. It’s like I’m on a countdown and I don’t know what happens when the clock hits zero.

      “Just keep walking, Logan.” Isaiah’s too damn calm. “We got you. Keep walking.”

      I called Isaiah from my truck. The police took me there after my blood sugar tanked.

      Police showed. They yanked me back from Abby. They tried to ask questions, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Abby. EMS showed. They worked on Abby. My blood sugar tanked. The police officer freaked. I dropped the bomb I was diabetic and had what I needed in my truck, telling him I didn’t want the paramedics’ focus off of Abby.

      He drove me there, but only after I watched them load Abby into the ambulance. The police officer wanted to call my parents, but I told him no. I’m eighteen. Had to prove it with my driver’s license. Eighteen.

      Mom held me back in school, kept me from starting kindergarten when I should have. I’m eighteen. Older. Should be wiser.

      Abby’s seventeen. She’s seventeen and a bullet tore through her body. A bullet I couldn’t stop. I have no idea if Abby has family to call.

      Isaiah opens the door to a one-room bathroom, only releasing his grip once we’re in. Noah locks the door behind him. Isaiah snatches paper towel after paper towel out of the dispenser and Noah waves his hand near the motion sensor on the sink. I ignore the mirror as I wash my hands. Red runs down the drain and my lungs constrict.

      Abby was shot, there was a gaping wound on her head and her blood is on my hands. I grab hold of the sink and lean over. Nausea races through me and I turn my head to suck in air.

      Isaiah and Noah remain silent. Permit me the moment to get my shit together. I continue to breathe in and out. Just like I begged Abby to do. Just like when I tried to breathe for her. When I straighten, I find Noah leaning against the door and Isaiah next to me, offering the paper towels.

      I take them, then wipe my face. “She wasn’t breathing right. Would take a breath then stop. Then breathe again.”

      “She quit breathing at any point?” Noah asks.

      I shake my head no, then needing the support, collapse against the cinder block wall. “Abby called. I was at the truck. I told her to stay put, but she didn’t. She knew they were coming. She told me things.”

      An address. Directions of what to do. Isaiah. She said if I ran out of money to involve Isaiah. My thoughts don’t have a start. Don’t have a stop. “I went into the alley for Abby and there was a shot.” I didn’t get to her fast enough. I failed. “There were footsteps so I went against the wall. I hid.”

      “You did right,” Noah says. “Did you get a good look at any of them?”

      I scrub both hands over my face. I’ve tripped down a dark, deep hole.

      “Logan,” Isaiah pushes in a low voice.

      My arms drop to my sides. “Yeah. The guy who shot Abby. I saw him. And another guy. He went into the alley before I did, but he said he was with her. He took Abby’s phone, walked me to the street and disappeared.”

      Isaiah and Noah share a long look then Isaiah tips his head to the door. “One of us needs to be in the dark and stay clear of problems. To protect what’s ours if it bleeds into our lives.”

      Noah stares straight into my eyes. “I’m right outside.”

      I nod to Noah and he leaves. Isaiah’s gray eyes search mine. “The guy you found hovering over Abby—was he our height? Midtwenties. Cold son-of-a-bitch.”

      “Yeah. He could have shot me, but he didn’t.”

      Isaiah rubs the tiger tattooed up his arm. “Because he needed you to get Abby out without him being involved, otherwise he would have. His name is Linus and he’s high up the food chain. You see him again, run in the opposite direction. It’s a problem he knows who you are and he’s not going to like you were a witness.”

      “He was watching us at the bar.”

      A muscle in Isaiah’s jaw jumps. If Isaiah knows his name, then he and Linus are aware of each other, and Isaiah’s real protective when it comes to keeping Rachel away from his days on the street. Isaiah has a legit job working on custom cars and he busted his ass to reach this point in his life.

      “He asked if I saw who shot Abby and I told him no.”

      “Good call. I’ll ask around. See if any of our names pop up. Did the person that shot Abby see you?”

      “His instincts said I was there, but the two other guys he was with were on the move so he left.”

      “What did he look like?”

      “My height, leaner than me, jeans, winter hat on his head. It was shadowed so I can’t give too much description, but if I see him again, I’d know him.”

      “What did you say to the cops?”

      Exactly what Linus had told me to say. “That me and Abby were on a date, we got separated, she called me scared from the alley, that I went after her...” That’s when my blood sugar tanked and they stopped asking questions.

      “They didn’t ask if you saw anything?”

      “Things were bad. If I talk to the cops again maybe I could work with one of those sketch artists—”

      “You’re going to need to be careful with that,” Isaiah cuts me off.

      “What?”

      “Talking СКАЧАТЬ