Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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I think I'm screaming, but it's hard to tell in the chaos of approaching sirens, flashing lights, and the roar of the boat as it speeds off into the dark distance. Inside the nearest warehouse, a van squeals as drives out and into the night. The yells and thuds of Taggart's men nearby as they desperately try to pack up the remaining van with boxes. I squirm under Owen, trying to crawl out from under his bulk. The rough ground digs into my palms and knees. I groan as I pull myself from under him. I turn around on my knees, gasping at what I see.
"Owen!" He's still not moving. Blood is seeping into the wet ground, soaking into the darkness. He's lying on his stomach and I can't see a wound, or any sign that he's breathing. Crawling forward, I clutch his coat and push him until he's on his back. The longest second passes. And then I finally hear him breathing. Owen groans and splutters. Blood is spread across his neck and shoulder.
"Owen, are you... where were you hit..." I whimper.
Groaning in pain, he tries to sit up. I put my hand behind his back and try to support him. He's rubbing his shoulder, blood is slick across his palm.
"You've been shot," I whimper. Everything is happening too fast, and it's still happening. The sirens are coming closer, the lights growing. I don't know what to do, and I'm scared in a way I feel physically. My whole body has frozen painfully.
"Hey... it's just a graze. I'm not shot." He takes my head in his hands, his eyes fixed on me, and I realise I'm shaking. "I'm OK, I'm OK." I nod weakly, feeling like the blood has drained from my body. Feel the wet stain of his blood marking my skin. His pale face flashes with blue. In the distance, I hear the cars screech to a halt. The police are here.
"OWEN!" Taggart's gruff voice calls. We both turn and see him lying haphazardly on the ground. A few of his men linger by his side but rush away from whatever order he mutters to them. Owen drags himself up, grunting in pain. He helps me stand, and we rush over to where Taggart is lying. Owen sinks beside him.
Taggart is so white he's translucent. Blood turned black in the darkness, pools around his body. His chest is coated in so much I can't make out any wounds – just blood. He's glassy-eyed, but somehow there's still a smirk on his lips. As if dying is merely an amusing surprise. Or maybe nothing for a man like him to fear.
"You need to get out of here. Run now. Take her and leave," he spits.
Owen nods. He coughs like he has too many emotions on his lips. He hates this man, but this man is also his father. For better or worse. He's the only family who remained when everyone else fled. That has to mean something.
"You... I can't..." Owen stutters and I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. Taggart sees the move and smiles.
"I told him, I told him... in this life or the next..." He drifts and then a shadow across his body draws him back. I look up and see Detective Harrison standing there. He's staring down at Taggart hard, his lips pursed. I tug on Owen's shoulder. He has to run.
