Page 181 of Pretty Poisoned

"Did the body cams pick up me getting kicked in the fucking ribs while I was on the ground?"

He reacts for a split second, looking up from the screen, before quickly collecting himself. I guess he missed that one.

He turns the iPad toward me and plays a split-screen video from CNN—one side shows a slow-motion, enhanced video of us running for the plane, and on the other sits a man in scrubs the marquee below names Dr. Reynaldo Sousa.

"That's right, Jake. There's no way Luca De Rossi survived these gunshot wounds. If you slow it down right here, you can see that he's hit at least three separate times in the lower abdomen. Although we can't see the exact angle, the first would have entered his lung while the next two likely went through his kidneys, possibly his liver."

I watch as bullets tear through Luca in slow motion, and he sinks to the ground. I'm there, too. You can't tell from the video that Declan's speaking to me—you certainly can't hear it on the video—but I can as clear as day in my head.

I'll never leave you, Teagan. Close your eyes and count to thirty.

My ribs ache like I've been pulled apart.

And then, I watch Declan drag Luca onto the plane, the door slamming closed behind them.

"Even in the best-case scenario, if he were rushed to a hospital, survival would not be likely. And while we don't know exactly where the plane went, we know it disappeared into Canadian airspace before it dropped off the grid completely. Without medical assistance, Luca died on that plane. He maybe could have lived…another fifteen minutes."

Tears stream down my face. I feel like I'm the one bleeding out—right here in this room. My guts are spilling from my chest and onto the floor, and I'm just waiting for it to be over.

"Thank you, Dr. Sousa. We can only hope that this realization helps calm the sheer chaos and violence we've seen from the Gods of Tomorrow fanbase over the past two days—"

Agent Morris stops the video. "You were more than just a fan, Teagan."

"You don't know that he's dead," I sob. "You can't know that for sure."

There's a knock on the door before another officer enters the room. "Finish up. We've got to let her go," he says. "Her lawyercalled—they have a court order. They're having her extradited back to California for a 5150."

"A 5150? Really?"

"Yeah, apparently, this one is batshit crazy. You won't be able to use anything she says in here. I got the whole story on the phone. She went missing a few weeks ago; the family has been very concerned due to her mental health issues, and she's a suicide risk. Transport will be here in an hour."

Do you think they can fit two people in one of those white coats?

And then, I laugh. I laugh in a way that hurts until it gives way to tears and hysterics because why not? After all, I'm crazy, right?

And I don't give a fuck. Let them take me away. I'd much rather be in a padded room in California than a cell in wherever the fuck this is.

I bet they'll even sedate me. That sounds delicious right now.

"You can take her back now," the agent says. "But I think it's pretty clear you weren't just there for the parties, Teagan. I'm sure something will come up, and I'll know where to find you now, won't I?"

And since being crazy is apparently the only thing that will get me out of this, I decide I might as well go big. I lunge for the agent's coffee mug, throw it against the wall behind me, and scramble across the floor for the shards.

They should have cuffed the crazy girl to the table. But they didn't because she's small with a pretty face and sad eyes. And they have no idea what she's capable of.

They're both on me before I drag the sharp, porcelain tip through my wrist.

THIRTY

Afew hours later, we depart from a small municipal airport somewhere in the middle of butt fucking nowhere. I don't know why I thought I'd be on a regular flight—maybe I would have had there been a real airport nearby. Instead, I'm on a tiny airliner with my escort, who's manspreading all over my seat, and only two other people.

I wonder what's wrong with them.

"Is there wifi?" I joke. "An in-flight movie?"

He scoffs. "What do you think? Might as well get used to it—I don't think they have internet access in the looney bin."

"They might," I say. "We've got some classy looney bins where I'm from."

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