Gavin was back in his wet jeans, clutching his side where the gunshot wound was half-healed from Muriel and still bleeding through his fingers, squinting in his left eye where David slashed him. He rasped beside me, blood that was both his and not his dripping with the rain down his face. His guilt burned away within him, clawing through my sorrow and joining us in stinging heartache for our enemy. He never wanted to go that far. I may have begrudged Catrina, but I never wanted her to die. Coughing, Gavin mustered the strength to stand taller. “Take her and leave,” he said hoarsely.
A delayed response had David placing his hand on his mouth, like he couldn’t bear to let anyone see him fall apart. His eyes dragged up toward Gavin, but the disbelief that once stalled him had deteriorated i
