Page 272 of Cross the Line
After a few seconds, he coaxes, “And?”
“Ryker was shot.” As bitter as it tastes to recount, I add, “He was between Finley and Presley, trying to stop him from hurting her. Presley wanted to know where Salem was.”
“His wife…” The words are a chuff, like they somehow make a difference to what happened.
It doesn’t, so I don’t acknowledge it. “Finley wouldn’t tell him, and when he tried to beat her, Ryker got in the way. He… he protected her.”
Like I should have done.
“What happened when Mr. Hallman protected your girlfriend, Mr. Sylkes?”
“P—Presley… He… umm… he shot him.”
“Where?” The detective demands.
I’m shaking my head as I shrug. “Can’t say. I don’t—I don’t know… Didn’t see…”
“How could you not see it if you were there? If you saw everything else?”
“I don’t know!” The words plug my windpipe, pushing my breath back down my throat until I’m choking on it.
“Okay, you don’t know. So what happened afterward? How did Miss Tomes get shot and her brother killed? What happened?”
My heart hammers into my ribs. So hard that I can’t hear myself think. Everything in my head is a vivid blur of moving limbs and garbled screams.
“Mr. Sylkes?”
“Yes?”
“If you would…”
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I savor the metallic tang that floods my senses. Focusing on it, rather than the noise in my head.
“We were fighting for the gun, and… and it went off the first time.” Bile blazes up my throat at my words. Flashes of red throb in my head, clouding my eyes.
“That’s when Miss Tomes was shot through the chest and the bullet winged Mr. Morrow’s shoulder.”
I choke on my reply. “Yes… I—I think so… Yes…”
“Which is it? Yes, that’s what happened, or you think so?”
Burying my face in my hands, I desperately attempt to silence the voice in my head, biting and barking that it was me, I did it. It’s my fault.
I give him a nod. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He asks, voice pitching like the answer isn’t right there in front of him. “Yes, what?”
“It’s what happened. Presley and I… We were fighting for the gun, and it went off.”
“Twice.”
“Yes.”
“Talk me through the second shot.”
The pain in my chest spreads through my torso, twisting my stomach. How many more times will I have to tell him what happened? I can’t keep doing it. I can’t keep going back there, and I can’t… I can’t keep seeing it all… I can’t…
“Mr. Sylkes,” he calls my attention to him. “The second shot.”
