“I think I know why you came here,” Thompson said, his face pink, very pink. “We’ve been friends for a few months now. The chemistry has always been there, but it’s been building.” He was slurring slightly from the booze. “I don’t think either one us can ignore it anymore.”

Oh no.

He was leaning in, his straggly soul-patch whiskers straining toward me. He was going to kiss me! I would have considered it four years and six inches ago, but not now. No. No way. I shoved him in the chest.

“Back off.”

He looked genuinely shocked. “But I thought . . .”

“No,” I said firmly. “There is nothing between us. I’m in love with someone else.”

At first, he appeared confused, like I’d spoken the words in Cantonese. But then his expression darkened. “Is it Max? Or is it Freya?”

I may as well tell him. It would all come out when I was dead. “It’s Freya.”

He shook his head sadly. “You worship her and adore her and do everything for her. But she doesn’t care about you at all. That’s not love, Low. That’s obsession.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t know what we have.”

“You’re her nanny. She pays you.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered. “What would a short little dweeb like you know about love anyway?” The comment may have been unnecessary, but it hammered the message home.

Thompson jumped off the sawhorse (proving my point). “I’m not sure our friendship is such a good idea anymore.”

“Probably not.”

He pressed his lips together like he was keeping some cruel, hurtful words inside. And maybe he was. Finally, he mumbled, “Let yourself out.” And he hurried out of the barn.

Drunk and alone in the filthy chaotic workshop, I felt a lump of anguish crushing my chest. I’d had one person who cared about me, one person who saw something beautiful in me, and now he hated me. But, like everyone else, Thompson would be better off without me. And that made what I was about to do easier . . . emotionally at least. I was still afraid of dying a slow and painful death. Of surviving with permanent, debilitating injuries. But there was no other way.

And then, like a sign from above—or maybe below—I saw it. Tossed carelessly on the work bench, barely visible in the clutter of tools and beer cans and carburetor parts, was a handgun.