37. Janet
JANET
Ihear the chaos before anything else.
No voices, just noise. Wordless, violent, coming through the wall from the living room. Furniture scraping. Something heavy hitting the floor. Glass breaking, over and over. A grunt, low and pained, then another.
I check the window because I have to try.
It slides open easy. Three floors down, straight to the street. No fire escape. No ledge. Nothing but a drop that would break both my legs before I hit the ground.
There's nowhere to go but through that door.
I grip the gun with both hands and wait.
A chair scrapes sideways. Wood cracks. A lamp hits the floor and breaks apart. Something heavy slams into a wall, slides down it.
My bare heel slips on the tile.
I catch myself against the sink and keep the gun pointed at the door. My arms tremble so hard the front sight jumps. I lock my elbows, but it doesn't stop.
My palm still burns from hitting Mike.
Another crash.
Glass scatters across the floor.
The apartment goes still.
The quiet is worse than the noise.
Footsteps come toward the bedroom.
“Hey, you can come out. I ain’t that bad,” Ryan says.
My grip tightens around the gun.
I stand at the bathroom doorway.
I raise the gun with both hands the way they taught me at the range. Elbows locked. Front sight. Breathe out.
The bedroom door opens slowly.
Ryan fills the frame.
Blood on his mouth. One eye swollen. His shirt torn at the collar, chest moving hard. He looks huge in the doorway, all damage and rage.
He looks at the gun in my hands and smiles like he already knows I won't use it.
"Janet Graham," he almost laughs. "Ain't that a bitch."
"Don't move." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He doesn't move. He’s deciding whether I'm serious.
"You're not going to shoot me in a bathroom, Janet." He says my name like he's tasting it. "How you going to explain it? You put me away for five years, you kill me in my brother's apartment?"
"I will shoot you. Back the fuck up!"
"Sure," he says, and walks backward with his hands half raised, smiling like this is a game he already knows how to win.
I move into the living room, gun up, both hands on it, arms locked so hard my elbows ache. Ryan keeps fifteen feet between us, loose on his feet, blood on his mouth, one eye swelling.
"So what happened, you kids fell in love?"
The living room is destroyed. A chair on its side. Broken glass under the coffee table. A smear of blood across the floor near the kitchen island.
I keep the gun on Ryan, but my eyes flick past him.
Mike is on the floor.
Not moving.
"Mike? Mike?"
Ryan smiles with the good side of his mouth.
"He needs help, go help him."
I don't move.
I want to. Every part of me wants to run to him, drop to my knees, put my hands on his face and make him open his eyes.
But Ryan is watching me breathe.
He plants himself in front of the elevator.
"You want to leave, you're going to have to go through me." He says it like it's obvious. Like he's explaining math to a child. "You're going to have to kill me, Janet."
I try to slow my breathing.
"Can you do that?" He steps closer, like he doesn't believe I can. "Because I don't think you can. You gotta keep that gun steady to do it."
He takes another step.
I back up until my shoulders hit the wall.
"Five years." His voice drops, quiet now, worse than the yelling. "Five years I sat in a cell thinking about you. About what you did to me."
He charges.
I fire, but he's already on me. The shot goes wide, the sound tearing the room open. His hand clamps around my wrist and drives the gun up. My shoulder hits the wall.
Behind him, Mike moves.
One hand on the couch. Then the other.
He drags himself up like the floor is trying to keep him.
Mike's on his feet, swaying.
Ryan doesn't see him.
Mike runs into him and tears him off me. They slam into the kitchen island knocking a stool over. Ryan grabs a knife from the butcher block. The knife is caught between their hands, Ryan trying to turn it, Mike fighting his wrist with everything he has left.
"Go," Mike says.
I run to the elevator and hit the button repeatedly.
Behind me, Ryan drives an elbow into Mike's ribs. Mike folds.
Ryan drives his shoulder into Mike's chest and slams him back against the counter. Mike's grip on his wrist slips.
The knife goes in.
I hear it before I understand it. A short, wet sound. Mike makes a noise low in his throat and folds forward against his brother, and for one terrible second they're standing there, holding each other up.
Ryan shoves him off. Mike hits the floor and doesn't get up.
"Mike!" I'm screaming his name and I don't know when I started.
The elevator doors open.
Ryan turns toward me, chest heaving, the knife still in his hand, blood on the blade that isn't his.
I don't see him raise it. The knife is already flying toward me.
I hit the floor.
That's the split second he needs.
He charges me.
He's five steps away when I fire.
The gun kicks hard in my hands, louder than the range, louder than anything. Ryan jerks, a sound punched out of him, but he doesn't go down.
He stops. Then takes another step toward me.
I fire two more times into his torso.
This time his legs give out from under him. He drops to his knees, then forward, the knife clattering somewhere past my feet.
The apartment goes silent except for Mike trying to breathe.
I run to him and drop beside him, knees hitting glass. One hand goes to his stomach, the other to his face. His shirt is soaked through, blood pushing between our fingers.
"Go," he says.
"No."
He flinches, his teeth catching on the breath, but his eyes stay on me. He reaches for my wrist, trying to move my hand away, trying to save me from the room, from Ryan, from all of it.
I lean closer, forehead almost touching his.
"You weren't here."
"I'm not leaving you."
His grip weakens.
"You can't die."