Chapter 3 Annalise
Annalise
The world swirls, spins.
Freezing air shocks my skin as I fly out of the car and turn toward Chase. My hair blows in front of my eyes, the life-and-death panic crashing into a dizzy blur of cheap alcohol and the unsteady relief of finally being on solid ground.
I shake his shoulders, trying to bring him back to life, while kicking off my other heel. “Chase, let’s go. We’re here. Can you stand?”
His eyes flutter open, and he tips sideways, spilling out the door and toppling onto the pavement. I react quickly, bending to catch his head before it smashes on the driveway.
“Dammit…come on, don’t die on me.” Using all my strength, I reach under his armpits to lift him, huffing and puffing as I prop him against the frame of the car, while mentally thanking those extra planks I did this afternoon.
His skin is even paler now, lips parted, eyes hardly open.
Desperation claws up my throat.
Chase teeters in place. Blood spreads in a horrifying pool around his entire leg.
My heart stutters, knees wobbling as the reality of the evening sinks in. “Chase, I swear to God, you better help me out here.”
A groggy mumble meets my ears.
Not helpful.
I let out a grunt of frustration, adjusting my grip as I brace my feet, sliding his arm around my shoulders, then tugging him forward until I’m half dragging, half guiding him up the driveway. His boots slide against the snow as I stagger forward, his broad frame pressing into me.
My gaze zigzags from left to right, and I silently pray that Chase lives next to smokers who are willing to brave the storm for a quick nicotine rush on their front porch.
But there’s no one around. Only a ghostly, mocking howl of wind.
“Why’re you…helping me…” Partially limping, he leans in farther, his arm deadweight around me. “I don’t…”
“Doesn’t matter. We just need to get inside. Is the door locked?”
No response.
Guess I’ll find out.
It’s a short driveway, and a single step brings us to the front door.
He trips on it, nearly toppling us both onto the frosty concrete.
“Shit,” I mutter, my body shaking from the weight as my hand flies out to grip the pillar for balance.
My bare foot connects with the welcome mat, sliding it out of place, and a small silver key catches my eye, glinting beneath the porch light.
Steadying us both, I bend over, then pull the screen open and jab the key into the lock, twisting sharply.
The taupe door unbolts with a creak.
Instantly, a wet nose grazes my shin, followed by a mass of long, scraggly fur coiling around my ankles. Chase stumbles through the threshold, and I maintain my grip on him while we beeline toward the couch, and I deposit him with a grunt.
The living room is dark and cluttered, only the glow of streetlight filtering through the half-cracked blinds.
Multiple guitars, in varying stages of completion, lean against the far wall.
Jackets hang haphazardly by the door. A pair of shoes, a dog leash, a dripping faucet cutting through the silence.
I blink at the man sprawled out on the couch as my toes curl into the old carpeting, my feet wet and frozen.
Phone.
I need to call for help.
My eyes dart around the darkened space, looking for a landline. Do people have those anymore? I race forward as my hands claw at the walls in search of a light switch. A moment later, warm yellow light brightens the space. “Do you have another phone?” I call out.
I wind through the small kitchen, then double back to the living room, my gaze shooting left, right, forward, back. No phone in sight.
My focus pings back to Chase, who is now slumped sideways on the muddy-brown sofa. His dog is curled up beside him, both paws dangling over the couch as the animal stares at me, silently begging me to help.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
Emotion seizes my chest, and I rush forward, slapping Chase’s cheek. “Hey. Are you still with me?” I place my ear against his ribs, registering the echo of subtle heartbeats and shallow breathing. “Do you have a first aid kit? We need to get this bleeding under control. And I need a goddamn phone.”
The dog whimpers beside us, pawing at his owner’s leg. The image breaks my heart.
I grip my hair with both hands, telling myself to focus, stay calm.
Surveying the room, I look around, desperate for something I can use. There’s a metal toolbox shoved halfway under the coffee table, its lid slightly ajar. Lunging for it, I yank it open. Wrenches, screwdrivers, a roll of electrical tape.
I push it aside and jump to my feet.
Think, Annalise.
Where would a guy like this keep—
The bathroom.
“Stay with me, Chase.”
Sprinting down the short hallway, I throw open the first door. Bingo. I rip open the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. Old shampoo bottles. Then, shoved toward the back, a battered first aid kit that looks like it was dug up from ancient catacombs.
My fingers close around it, my pulse thundering. I snatch a towel off the rack and rush back to the living room.
Chase hasn’t moved.
Dropping to my knees, I shove the coffee table aside and tear open the kit. Gauze, alcohol wipes, bandages. Not nearly enough for a bullet wound, but it’ll have to do.
“All right, rock star,” I mutter, forcing steadiness into my voice as I press the towel to his leg. “You’re not dying on me tonight.”
His lids flutter, eyes barely opening.
Exhaling sharply, I peel the wrapper off a roll of gauze with my teeth. I wind it around his thigh, my hands shaking as I pull it tight. Chase groans, his head pressing back against the couch.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know it hurts.”
But I have to keep going, because if I don’t get the bleeding under control, it won’t matter how much it hurts.
The dog whines again, nosing Chase’s limp hand. My chest clenches. I focus, knotting the gauze with quick, jerky movements. Blood still seeps through, but not as fast.
“Hey,” he murmurs. His lips are dry, throat bobbing. A hand tentatively lifts, two fingers flicking my hair. “Thanks, Annie.”
Annie.
Nobody calls me Annie.
I swallow. “Yeah. Sure.”
Then he passes out cold.
Triple crap.
He begged me not to call the cops or bring him to a hospital, but I’m running out of options.
I glance over at Toaster, the dog’s pointed nose resting on Chase’s hip, two brown eyes aimed hopelessly at his owner.
Tears well, melancholy stabbing at my heart like a hot skewer.
But the feeling is quickly replaced by a sense of determination as I lift off the floor, reach for a ratty quilt, and drape it over this stranger who has spun my evening on its axis.
I bolt for the front door. There has to be someone. I just need a phone.
Frigid air and serpentine snow smack me in the face as I rush outside in my bare feet and bloodstained party dress.
“Help!” I call out, pitching my voice over the hissing wind.
“I need help!” Glancing left and right, I choose right, stomping toward the brick tri-level with dim lighting bleeding through the pulled curtains.
Catapulting myself up the three porch steps, I start banging on the screen. “Hey! I need a phone!” Demonic music and shrieking snares seep through, vibrating the walls. I press the doorbell fifty billion times, pounding both fists against the frame. “Please help me!”
Footsteps. I hear them shuffling toward the front of the house.
A pang of hope slices through the fear.
A moment later, a scruffy guy in a white T-shirt opens the door, looking high as a kite. “Who the fuck’re you?”
I begin my rambling spiel, my words tripping over each other like a collapsing house of cards. “Please. I need to use your phone. The guy next door—Chase—he’s hurt. Really hurt. I just need—”
“Whoa.” He squints at me, frowning. “Your hair has…purple in it.”
“Oh my God. Can I please use your phone?”
More squinting, frowning, blinking. Finally, he snaps back and fishes out a cell phone from the pocket of his sweatpants. “Yeah, yeah. Do your thing.”
The phone slaps against my palm, and I move, racing back down the steps and hightailing it to the blue house on the left.
“Add your number in before you bring it back!” the guy yells after me.
My icy fingers stumble over the number keys, and in a moment of conflict I press ten numbers instead of three. Alex’s voice answers while I make a quick stop in the driveway, searching for the can of dog food in the car before running back to the house.
“Yeah?”
“Alex! Thank God. It’s me.”
A short pause. “Annalise? Where the hell are you? You were supposed to be home by now.”
“Just listen,” I rush out. “I need you. 112 Silverleaf Avenue. I’m only a mile from the condo. Please. Get here fast.”
“The fuck?”
“I’ll explain everything, I promise. I need your help. It’s urgent.”
He barks a laugh that’s tinged with confusion. “Wait, are you in trouble?”
“Yes.” I push through the open door, finding Chase and his dog right where I left them. “I mean, no. It’s not me, it’s…” Shit—how do I explain this? My brain stumbles over a story, a little white lie. “He’s Tag’s friend. He was shot in the leg, and he’s bleeding out. I just need—”
“Call a goddamn ambulance. Jesus. It’s like Armageddon outside.”
“I’m calling you. Please, just get here.”
“This is batshit. Where’s Tag?”
“He’s…not here.” I rip the lid off the can of dog food. “Dammit, Alex, we’re running out of time. Please.”
“Fuck this.” He growls out a series of curses, the jingle of car keys resonating through the speaker. “You better have a damn good explanation when I get there.”
Click.
My cheeks burn, eyes stinging with more tears. Toaster’s tail wags as he lifts off the couch, attention aimed at the can of food. Whimpers escape. The dog’s. Mine.
“Here you go, buddy. Eat up.” I place the can on the floor, watching as the animal hops down and devours the meal.
Next, I call my brother.
Deep breath.
Somehow I need to convince him not to press charges against the guy who just kidnapped me from a random gas station.