Chapter 29 Dane
DANE
The square looks like a war zone under the Christmas lights.
Blood colors the snow in dark patches, and bullet casings litter the cobblestones that are bare.
The wreaths and garland that once decorated the booths now hang in tatters, shredded by gunfire.
Someone's finally turned off the music, and the absence of those cheerful carols makes the aftermath feel even more surreal.
I stand near the fountain with Varen, watching as more vehicles roll into town.
More county deputies arrive first, which I expected.
Then state patrol shows up, and they're more formal, asking a lot of questions that no one seems to answer directly.
These men don't even know me and they're covering for me.
"This is gonna be a mess," Varen says in a tight voice. "State patrol's already talking about calling in the FBI. Mass shooting in a small town four days before Christmas? They'll want federal involvement."
All I can do is grunt at him because my focus keeps drifting back to Sloane, who sits on a bench near the diner with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Mira's beside her, talking to her and I'm assuming trying to offer comfort, but judging by the look on Sloane's face, she's in shock as the adrenaline of tonight's chaos wears off.
"Tell me again what happened," Varen says, pulling my attention back.
I've already told him once, but I understand the need for repetition.
He's the ranking law enforcement here now, the one who'll have to coordinate with state patrol and everyone else who wants answers.
And it's not like we didn't know this was going to happen.
We planned on this attack, and I know he's just trying to spin it like self-defense so everyone's story is straight.
"This was all self-defense," I say, though I'm smart enough to realize Varen won't let any ill intent slip into his investigation.
"Cal Maddox brought shooters to hunt down Sloane Grady and there were so many men.
Luckily," I tell him unironically, "the men of this town were armed and able to help defend her. "
"And you killed Maddox himself?" His question is hollow. He knows the tale I'm spinning isn't quite true, but if we'd have gone through the proper channels Sloane would be dead, and so would I.
"Yes." The authorities will find my prints on that weapon that killed him, registered to my name in the state of New York, and they'll collect gunshot residue from my skin too, most likely. And I don’t regret pulling that trigger for one second.
That man would've killed Sloane. I was protecting her.
Varen's gray eyes study me. "Self-defense?"
"He had a gun to Ms. Grady's head… I'd say it necessitated deadly force." I suck in a deep breath and sigh as I watch yet another state patrol cruiser roll in. At least they're not still blaring those damn sirens as they roll into town.
"Good." Varen's jaw tightens and now he's speaking under his breath. "That bastard got what he deserved." This is the part no one else gets to see of my new friend Varen, and I'm grateful to call him that.
One of the county deputies approaches with his hand resting on his sidearm as if he expects another firefight to break out. "Deputy Locke? The state patrol wants to start interviewing witnesses."
"Tell them to set up in the diner," Varen says. "And make sure someone's documenting the scene. Photos, statements, everything. When the Feds show up tomorrow, they're going to want a full report."
The deputy nods and hurries off and Varen turns back to me. "You're gonna have to give a statement eventually. But I can buy you a few hours if you need to get Sloane out of here. Get her somewhere warm before she goes into shock."
"I appreciate that."
"Is she okay?" It's really thoughtful of him to do this for us considering we're the reason his town got turned into a shooting range to begin with.
I glance at Sloane again. She's staring at her hands, turning them over as if she doesn't recognize them. "She will be," I tell him, but some part of me knows she's been changed forever, just like the first time I saw real violence like this.
Mira breaks away from the bench and walks over to us. Her red hair is disheveled, and there's blood on her shirt from helping the wounded. She looks exhausted and ready to go home, and I don't blame her. I think we all are.
"How bad are the injuries?" I ask.
"Mostly flesh wounds," she says. "Miles took a round through his shoulder, but it went clean through.
Gideon's got a leg wound that's going to need stitches, but nothing life-threatening.
Travis Boone caught some shrapnel in his arm from a ricochet, but he's already joking about it.
" She smiles softly at that sentiment and I realize the men here are sort of like her older brothers.
It makes me feel like she's accepting me as part of that family now too.
"Anyone dead?" I ask her, and Varen's eyes darken as he sweeps his gaze across the square.
Mira shakes her head. "No one from town, only the men from the city."
I feel a tinge of relief that the men who stood up for us weren't badly injured and no one lost their life, but just like Sloane, I know they'll be scarred by this for a long time to come.
It's a bittersweet initiation into a community I shunned for a very long time and the debt of gratitude I owe them all I can never repay.
Ellie emerges from the diner carrying a large thermos and a stack of paper cups.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and flour dusts her jeans—she must've been baking when the shooting started.
She stands outside the diner by the table set up earlier this evening, now righted again after the fight, and pours coffee into cups.
"Coffee's fresh," she calls out. "And I've got sandwiches inside if anyone's hungry."
The state patrol officers accept gratefully and one by one, they begin moving that way. One of them asks Ellie about setting up a command post, and she directs him to the back room of the diner without missing a beat.
The town's in good hands, and Sloane needs to get out of here before the questions start multiplying. Turning to Varen, I ask, "Can I borrow your car?"
He pulls the keys from his pocket and tosses them to me without hesitation. "Bring it back when you're ready. No rush."
"Thanks."
"Take care of her," he says, nodding toward Sloane. "And yourself. I'll handle things here tonight. You can come give your statement tomorrow once she's settled."
I head to the bench where Sloane sits and crouch in front of Sloane. Her eyes rise slowly to look at me and I can see how exhausted she is. It isn't likely she'll sleep tonight, but I have to get her to try. "Let's get you home."
"Home?" she says softly, rising slowly. The blanket falls from her shoulders, and I catch it before it hits the ground. I drape it back around her and keep one arm supporting her as we walk to Varen's sedan parked at the edge of the square.
Sloane stares out the window at the dark woods the entire way to the cabin.
I know some of what she's feeling—the utter disgust for humanity, fear over what she's seen and done, and probably most of all, some shock or horror over what she did.
I wish she'd feel up to talking about it and opening up, but I'm not going to push her. She'll let it out when she's ready.
The cabin comes into view, and my chest tightens at the sight of it.
The windows are boarded up, probably after they hauled the sheriff off in an ambulance.
It might've been Varen or one of the other men in town, and the gesture actually makes me speechless.
I still can't believe what this town will do for someone who never wanted to be here or assimilate.
Sloane, however, doesn’t seem to notice much of anything.
She's still silent and still staring into space when I park the car and round the front to open her door.
I help her to her feet, this time leaving the blanket on the cold ground as I walk her to the house, past my truck.
The tires have been shot out and the stench of gasoline permeates the soil nearby too.
When we're inside, I help her take off the coat she borrowed from Ellie, which has Cal's blood on it now, and Ellie might not want it back. Then I wrestle her out of the vest that saved her life without stopping to look for the slug that would've ended her. I'm sure that'll come too.
"Hey," I tell her as I cup both of her cheeks. Her eyes drift lazily up to meet mine. She looks drugged. " Go get in the shower. I'll start a fire and get some food ready."
She doesn't argue. She disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the water running.
I move through the cabin on autopilot, building a fire in the fireplace, pulling out the frozen stew from the freezer and heating it on the stove.
My hands are steady because I've done this sort of thing too many times to get freaked out by it, but my mind is racing.
I don't know how to help her. It might well be the one thing I can't do for her.
That makes me feel somewhat helpless, even more so than the night we were stranded on the mountain with no shelter or heat and Sloane came to the rescue.
But this time, there isn’t anything anyone can do other than ride out the waves of thoughts that will try to drown her and make her feel guilt unlike anything she's felt before.
Sloane drove a knife into Cal Maddox's ribcage, and there's no way of knowing now if it would've been a fatal blow.
For all I know, the job was done and my bullets were overkill.
But we'll never know. Sloane will only ever think that she did that, and there will be no way for me to convince her differently.
She's saved lives. Hell, it's what she does for a living. And taking a life probably wasn't something she ever thought she'd do. That mental trauma is enough to put anyone in a state of utter shock and existential crisis.
That kind of shift breaks people. I've seen it happen to soldiers, to rookies in the Mafia who thought they could handle it until they pulled the trigger and realized they couldn't.
But Sloane's not fragile. She's resilient. She's survived everything Cal threw at her, and she'll survive this too. I just need to make sure she doesn't have to do it alone.
The water shuts off as I'm ladling stew into two bowls for both of us.
I head into the bathroom to check on her when she takes longer than I think it should be.
Steam pours out when I open the door, and Sloane stands wrapped in a towel, her now-dark hair dripping onto her shoulders leaving trails of hair dye that's washed out across her creamy skin.
"Food's ready," I say.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway," I tell her at the risk of sounding like her father. God knows I'm almost old enough to be, but I don't want her to think I'm smothering her.
She nods, though I'm not sure she really heard me. I guide her to the bedroom and help her into clean clothes—one of my shirts and a pair of soft pants. Her movements are jerky and almost robotic. She's just a shell of the woman she normally is.
When we return to the kitchen, the fire has finally started warming the cabin and the scent of stew makes my mouth water.
Seeing her reaction makes me feel like a monster for not being more torn up over killing those bastards, but I'm numb to the violence now.
It's something I hope never happens to her.
"It's okay," I murmur, pressing my lips to her hair as I sit and she climbs on my lap. "You're okay."
"I killed him," she whispers. "I stabbed him, and I—"
"Look, baby, you had no choice, and you don't know that you killed him. It might've been my bullets. I'd never have let him hurt you." Her hair dampens my shirt, but I cling to her, letting her know by my strong grasp that I'm never letting go.
"I know." Her voice breaks. "I know that. But it doesn't change what I did. I'm a nurse, Dane. I'm supposed to save lives, not take them."
"You saved mine," I tell her. "And not just tonight, Sloane. You saved me from my past, from a future alone…"
She cries harder, and I let her. There's nothing I can say that will make this easier, no words that will erase what happened. She needs to grieve the person she thought she was, the line she never thought she'd cross. Sloane's going to carry this with her for the rest of her life.
But she doesn't have to carry it alone.
"We'll talk about it when you're ready," I say softly, "not before. You don’t owe anyone anything, alright?"
Her head tucks under my chin and I hear her whisper, "You're not mad at me?"
"No, baby." I brush the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. You faced down the man who wanted to destroy you, and you didn't choke."
Her breath hitches. "I don't like it…"
"I know… but it'll pass, and I'll still be here, being proud of you."
She leans into me again, and I hold her as the fire burns low. Her sobs gradually quiet and her breathing evens out. She's not asleep, but she's calmer now, the worst of the shock passing.
"I love you," I say into the quiet. "I love you, and I'm proud of you, and I'm not going anywhere."
"I love you too," she whispers.
I press my eyes closed and feel my stomach rumbling, but making sure Sloane feels anchored is more important than putting meat in my belly.