Chapter 3 Annalise #2
I punch in the number. It rings twice. And then—
“Please tell me this is my fucking sister.”
My breath falls out in a plume of relief. “It’s me, Tag.”
“Jesus Christ, where are you?”
“That guy from the gas station. He was shot, then he took the car and was trying to—”
“Yeah, I know what happened. Caught the tail end of it as I was coming out of the bathroom.” His long sigh filters through the speaker. “I’m at the police station. They brought me in for questioning as the only witness. It’s a goddamn mess.”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No, but I’ve been freaked out of my mind, thinking that asshole tossed you in the woods and got the hell out of Dodge. Or worse.”
“I’m fine. Just shaken up.” I peer down at Chase, his chest inflating with thin, feeble breaths beneath the gray-blue quilt. “He didn’t hurt me.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“He might already be a dead man, with or without your help. He’s in bad shape.”
“Good. He’s a fucking criminal, and if he did anything to hurt you—”
“He didn’t,” I interrupt. “I promise I’m okay.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…at his house.”
“What?”
“Listen, this is going to sound borderline certifiable, but I need you to trust me. I don’t think he’s a bad guy. He was desperate. He’d just been shot.” My stomach twists with indecision, but I go with my instincts. “Tell the cops I drove him willingly. Don’t press charges.”
“Hell. Fucking. No. Annalise, come on,” he shoots back. “I watched him steal my car with my little sister sleeping in the back seat. I’ve been worried sick. There’s a literal search party out there looking for you.”
“Call them off.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe. Probably.” I take a seat on the couch beside Chase, tugging the quilt up to his chin. “You trust me, right?”
He falters. “You know I do.”
“Remember when you wrecked Dad’s truck?”
Tag exhales sharply. “Not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.” I press the phone tighter to my ear. “You were nineteen, scared shitless, and you made a bad call. You left the scene, hoping you could fix it before anyone found out.”
Silence.
“But someone did find out,” I continue. “And you were lucky it was me. Because I covered for you. I told Dad I borrowed the truck, even though I didn’t even know how to drive, and that I lost control.
And you let me lie for you, because you knew if it came from you, he’d never forgive you for it.
” I glance at Chase, unconscious and barely breathing.
“This is the same thing, Tag. He made a bad choice. But he’s not a bad guy. ”
“How do you even know that?”
“I just do.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Dammit,” he mutters. “I hate when you do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make me go against my better judgment.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of reluctant understanding woven through it. “Do not make me regret this. If this guy touches a hair on your multicolored head, I’m burying him.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “Deal.”
“I’ll come pick you up as soon as they let me go. Send me your location.”
“I have a ride. Alex is on the way.”
“That’s comforting,” he grumbles. “Call me from his phone as soon as you get home.”
“Yeah.” My lips purse, throat stinging. “I will.”
The call disconnects, and I toss the phone on the skewed table across from me.
An eerie silence drapes over the room. My eyes gradually shift from the messy space to the lanky, doe-eyed dog, then to the unconscious man barely breathing on my left.
I take a moment to study him now that the adrenaline has tapered off and my safety is no longer in question.
By all standards, he’s good-looking.
Not the kind of person I’d expect to find in a situation like this.
He looks like someone who should be thriving, not scraping by.
How does a guy like him have no friends, family, or even enough money to buy a can of dog food?
No one should ever look this defeated, this alone.
Like a solitary soldier left behind on the battlefield, too beaten down to fight.
All so his dog could have a meager meal.
I extend my hand, looping my fingers around his palm and drinking in his profile: strong jaw with week-old scruff, long, fanning lashes, and unkempt brown hair hanging over his brow.
I’m not sure how much time he has left, or if he’ll even make it through the night. The notion is a missile to my ribcage.
Swallowing the burning lump of sadness, I part my lips.
He said he liked my singing voice, and I feel like everyone should experience something joyful and sweet in their final moments.
He’s a music man. It’s obvious, given the plethora of hand-carved guitars, the tattoo, the rock-band posters taped to his walls, their corners curling with age.
I close my eyes and start to sing that Dusty Springfield song.
My love for the 1960s started when I was nine years old and watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s with my mother, the two of us huddled up on her favorite loveseat in the den.
I’d become bewitched by Audrey Hepburn, to the point of mimicking her style.
Pearls strung around my neck, oversize sunglasses slipping down my nose, my mom’s old pleated dress dragging at my ankles.
I’d parade around the house, humming “Moon River” under my breath as Tag shot me annoyed glances from his perch at the video game console.
But it wasn’t just Holly Golightly’s charm that captured me; it was everything.
The music, the fashion, the effortless cool of an era that felt untouched by time and technology.
It was the crackle of a needle dropping on a vinyl record, the poetic rebellion of Dylan’s lyrics, and the cinematic magic of Technicolor dreams.
And now, years later, with a closet full of mod dresses and a heart that beats to the sound of a Fender Stratocaster, I still wonder if I’d been born in the wrong decade.
I don’t think Chase is a “Swinging Sixties” kind of guy, but music is music.
Songs have lungs. They breathe.
So I do what I can to keep him breathing.
I make it through one more song—Carole King’s masterpiece, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow”—before the front door barrels open and the peaceful moment is eclipsed by Alex stomping through the threshold with snow in his hair and murder in his eyes.
“I swear I’m going to kill you for this.”
Literal murder, apparently.
I try not to take his threats to heart because I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s different now.
And that’s my fault.
“Alex.”
My long-term boyfriend, and best friend since we were kids, storms over to the couch and gawks at the barely breathing man beside me.
I jump to my feet, reaching for Alex’s arm. “Thank God you came. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Really? You didn’t know how to dial 9-1-1? Jesus, Annalise, use your fucking brain.” Alex shoots me a glare before approaching Chase with a frustrated growl and giving him a once-over. “This guy needs a surgeon. Possibly a coroner.”
My pulse hitches. “Don’t say that.”
“What do you expect me to do here?”
“I-I don’t know…help him, try to patch up the wound or something.” My fingers curl around his fully tattooed forearm as I bounce on both feet. “Please, Alex. You were a Boy Scout. You’ve taken first aid classes. And you helped that dog that was hit by a car last year.”
“Seriously? That dog had a broken leg, not a bullet wound and liters worth of blood loss. And I was a Boy Scout for five fucking seconds. Christ. What the hell even happened?” Minty colored eyes lock on mine as he rakes a hand through his tar-black hair.
“Are you roping me into some seedy crime that’ll land me behind bars as an accomplice? Fuck. No way. I’m out.”
I gouge my nails into his skin, wrenching him back. “Alex! Wait. You haven’t even looked at him yet.”
“My vision is just fine. You asked for my opinion, and I’m giving it to you: he needs an ambulance or a body bag. Your choice.”
“I—” The words die in my throat as I glance over my shoulder at Chase. Something tells me Alex is right. I can’t worry about hospital debt or legal trouble. This is life-and-death. Nodding frantically, I reach for the phone on the coffee table. “Okay…okay, you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he snaps, something brittle in his voice. “You drag me out here, beg for my help, then you want to ignore my advice. Classic Annalise.”
Turning away, I punch in the three numbers and try not to cry. The dispatcher answers on the second ring. “Hello? Hi,” I say, my voice squeaky, shredded. “I need an ambulance. Someone’s been shot.”
Alex continues his tirade, pacing in circles beside me and kicking at loose clutter on the floor. “What the hell are you even doing with him? Alone, at that. In his house. Why have I never seen this guy before?”
I keep my back to him. Focus on the call.
I try to block out the noise.
This will pass.
“After everything I’ve done for you, and you don’t even respect me enough to answer?”
I give the dispatcher the address, my voice tight.
Alex lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you screwing this dude?”
My eyes squeeze shut.
“You are, aren’t you?”
The woman tells me to stay on the line, but I end the call, chuck the phone, and scramble away.
“Hey!” Alex’s hand snags my wrist in a bruising clutch. “Fucking hell, woman. Answer me.”
I whip back around, ready to erupt. “I’m not cheating on you!
God! He’s Tag’s friend. I hardly know him.
” Fat, hot tears spill down my cheeks, a culmination of the night, the lingering tequila, and the misplaced words boomeranging at me.
I can hardly catch my breath. “I was just trying to help him.”
Toaster jumps off the couch and plops down on my bare toes. The warmth temporarily soothes me as the room goes quiet and Alex sighs, palming the back of his neck with both hands.
He stares at me, unblinking. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” I repeat, the words ragged.
Alex pulls me to him, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead and circling his arms around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re okay, right? You’re not hurt?” He cups my jaw, angling my face from side to side, searching for signs of injury. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. It’s been a scary night.”
“Tell me what happened.” He kisses my nose.
“I will. I just…” Hesitation seizes me for a beat before I relax, surrendering to his hug. His heart is racing, his hold on me strengthening as I nuzzle against his chest.
Sirens blare in the distance, slicing through the snowy night. I peer out the window through the cheap vinyl blinds, watching flurries zigzag between power lines and tree branches.
Inching back, I find Alex’s eyes. “One second. I need to grab something. I’ll meet you by the door.”
As the sirens grow closer, I jog into the kitchen, find a napkin and a pen, and jot down a few scribbled words. I place the note on the coffee table before giving Toaster a quick scratch between the ears and meeting Alex at the front of the house.
I spare one last look at Chase as the ambulance pulls up. He doesn’t stir when the flashing lights streak through the frosted glass, painting him in red and blue. Toaster hops back on the couch and snuggles against Chase’s thigh, the dog’s ears perked to full attention.
For a guy who crashed into my world like a wrecking ball, Chase looks devastatingly fragile right now.
My hand clamps around Alex’s palm. I pivot back around, watching the paramedics rush inside, their voices urgent, their movements practiced. Toaster doesn’t budge, his small body curled protectively against Chase’s side.
I should look away. Should let go.
But as they hover over him and check for a pulse, I find myself holding my breath, waiting, hoping, feeling like a listener clinging to the final note of a song…
Praying it doesn’t end just yet.