“Aunt Stella shot me!” Mel sounds more aggrieved than dying. That gives Rose heart. “I didn’t even hear a bang.”

“The gun has a silencer.”

“That’s icky professional.”

“I saw you go down. You weren’t moving. I thought…” Rose decides not to tell her what she thought. “Where are you hurt?”

“My foot. It felt like somebody hit the side of my foot with a crowbar. I hit my head when I fell. I think I passed out for a minute. Are we in the garage?”

“Yes.”

Harley’s truck is idling, the metallic rumble familiar, almost reassuring. For a moment, Rose is confused. The truck, the darkness, the door, the engine running: It hits her with unnerving force. Carbon monoxide gas. Stella is going to gas them, make it look like suicide.

“Stay here,” she says to Mel. “No, wait. Keep talking. I’m going to have to find you by sonar.”

“I bet Aunt Stella got Dad’s keys to your house. She got in, did the drug switch. Made you seem crazy. I should have seen it.” Mel’s voice is thin, more air than sound. She is probably in shock: gunshot, blow to the head, kicking. The kicking bothers Rose—though probably not Mel—almost more than the gunshot. It betokens such a visceral form of hatred.

“Ack!” Mel squeaks as Rose shuffles into her.

“It’s me,” Rose says, and reaches down. “What part of you have I got?”

“My right elbow.”

“Hang on. I’ve got to get you away from the exhaust pipe.” It might buy Mel a few seconds or minutes, but the garage is full of fumes, and more pumping in. She grabs the girl under the arms and uses all her strength to drag her away from the back of the truck. Mel makes muffled whimpering noises. Rose knows she is doing her best not to scream like a scalded cat as her wounded foot is dragged and bumped over the uneven concrete of the old garage floor. Rose talks to distract both herself and Mel. This is one moment she does not want to be in.

“How bad does your foot hurt?”

“Not like it was shot exactly. It burns. It hurts, but not screaming hurts.” Mel’s voice is full of catches where pain snatches at her breath.

“I heard a ping. I think the bullet ricocheted off the pavement. Might not be all that bad.” Rose knows that half of surviving is thinking one will. Gunshots are considered deadly even when they’re not, then they are. “Stella was shooting to scare us.”

“You just want to believe she was only trying to scare us,” Mel mumbles.

“True.”

“Should we yell for help?”

“In a minute.” Rose doubts the sound will carry through brick and heavy wood. Or that anyone can reach them before they succumb to the fumes.