“What are you doing here?” I whisper as I lower my weapon.
“What the hell is going on?” Luke replies, his voice a low and unsteady gravel. He peers into Dad’s trashed office and the sight unhinges his jaw. “Oh my God…”
“Quiet,” I whisper, cutting him off. I grab his wrist and pull him into the kitchen.
“Mac, we need to call the cops,” Luke whispers, his shoes crunching against the broken glass.
“Luke, quiet, I’m better trained than any cop,” I say and look up into his stunned eyes. “Just stay close to me and don’t say another word.”
Luke stares at me, momentarily frozen, then nods and takes a step closer.
I open the garage door. He follows me inside. I punch the code into the basement. Luke’s mouth drops again as the doors open and the stairs appear.
“Let’s go,” I whisper and pound down the stairs.
I reach the gun range. I scan the room with my eyes and my weapon. I pray to see someone. Anybody. Even if it’s a Colombian. If someone is down here, then I know I’m not too late. My finger tightens around the trigger. My heart sinks. There is no one. I run to the weapons room, Luke on my heels. Nothing. I turn toward the martial arts room and inch my way toward the closed panic room door.
Maybe they’re in there. Maybe they made it, my brain repeats over and over again. But somewhere inside, I know they haven’t. I feel tiny pieces of me start to break apart. Like my soul is being slashed one square inch by one square inch and thrown into the air like confetti. Mocking me. I try to breathe the pieces back in. I try to collect them. But they float away. And I feel emptier and emptier with each step I take.
I reach the door. I close my eyes. I beg. Please, God. Please, God.
I open my eyes. I open the door. It’s empty.
My knees are shaking. I swallow the scream inside my throat. The adrenaline drains from my body and it begins to ache. I grip the handle of the panic room door. My knuckles are white and every time I breathe, I feel like a knife is being plunged deeper and deeper into my spine.
There is a crack in the weapons room followed by the sound of metal scraping against metal.
My muscles twitch and tighten back into place. I pull Luke by the collar and we duck behind the wall, my gun at my chest. The sound of scraping metal stops. I hear footsteps on the cement floor. I watch as two shadows move closer.
“Anything?” I hear a male voice whisper. The footsteps are now only a few feet away. I take a breath, whip my body around the door frame, and point the gun into the room.
The escape door is open and standing inside the weapons room are two faces I recognize. Aunt Samantha and the young Black Angel watcher from school, both with Glock pistols pointed at my head. I lower my gun. They lower theirs. We stare at each other.
“They’re gone, aren’t they?” Sam finally asks, her voice calm and quiet, her gun hanging at her side.
I bite my lip and slowly nod. Their faces become a blur. They’re gone. My parents are gone.
EIGHTEEN
“Reagan, come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe,” Sam says, but I don’t move. My jaw, my eyes, my arms, and my legs are locked and feel like they weigh about a thousand pounds. Her eyes are kind and wide and blue. They stare at me, waiting for me to follow her. The axons and synapses in my brain fire, telling my body to take a step forward, but I can’t. I don’t shake or cry or speak. I am stone.
My brain repeats two words over and over again. They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone. The words rattle back and forth in my skull and I want to scream, but my mouth stays tight. My tongue doesn’t move.
“Reagan,” she repeats softly.
They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone.
She waits another beat for me to move on my own. She looks into my eyes, presses her thin lips together, then grabs me gently by the wrist and pulls me toward the weapons room. The tug on my arm forces one foot to step in front of the other, and I let her guide me up the stairs.
I begin to feel little things. Her thin fingers around my wrist and the stairs beneath my feet. My boots echo. I concentrate on the sound of my steps and the breath in my chest to drown out the screaming in my head. I focus on moving forward so I won’t crumble into a ball on the floor. I just move where she pulls me.