“Wrong question,” Adam snaps. And again, he’s lookin’ at me. “Better question. Who gave it to him?”
I point to myself. “You think I gave him a gun? Why would I do that? I’m the only one in this room who loves him!”
Adam laughs.
Merc says, “Shut the fuck up. Both of you.” Then he turns his gaze back to Donovan. “Do you want them to leave so we can chat?”
Donovan scans the room. He doesn’t know the nurses. He might recognize Doc, Nick, and Merc. But then again, he might not.
His gaze lands on Sasha.
Then we all turn to look at Sasha.
But just as quick, Donovan directs us all back to him. “Weren’t we all going to have a drink?”
“What?” Nick says.
“I heard something about a drink,” Donovan says. “I could use one, to be quite frank.”
A dumb silence fills the room and I can practically read their thoughts. Will it be this easy?
But Donovan’s next words discourage any hope of that. Because he says, “Yeah. A drink. Let’s all have a drink.” Then he picks up the mason jar filled with thick, blue liquid and walks over to a tray where there is a short stack of little water cups. He counts out thirteen as he fills each one to the top. Evening them out until all the blue liquid inside the jar is gone.
He picks one up, then backs himself into the corner, pointing the gun at us. “Drink.”
“Maggie’s not drinking. You’re fucking crazy—”
“Oh, I’m crazy, all right,” Donovan says. “But you’re wrong, Adam. She will be drinking with the rest of us.”
“It’ll knock her out,” Merc says. “Hard. It’s way too much.”
“Yes,” Donovan says. “It will.”
Those of us who were there that night all look at each other. Me. Nathan. Adam. McKay. Donovan. And we remember what he was in the middle of doing out there in the swampy woods.
He was stealing her. He was stealing my Maggie.
She was drugged and he was stealing her.
For a moment, I’m off my game. I don’t understand. What is he doing? Why does he want her knocked out?
This wasn’t in the plan!
Adam is yelling now. “No. No fucking way. You can go ahead and kill yourself for all I care. I did the best I could for you, Donovan, but no. This ends now. So do it. Blow your fuckin’ head off, I don’t care. You’re not getting her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - NICK
“Wait.” I put myself between Adam and Donovan. Because fuck that. I didn’t come all this way so that these two assholes could fuck up Wendy’s cure with a pissing contest. “Half, Donovan. Half. That cupful is too much. Whatever you’re doing, you can’t want her dead, right?”
We are this close to fixing shit.
We are this close to putting things right.
We are this close to walking out of here new, better people who never have to think about the Company, and these fucked-up assholes in it, ever again.
There is no way in hell I’m gonna let Donovan Couture kill himself before I get what I need. Because that’s what he’s doing with this Maggie stunt. He’s begging Adam to kill him. And Adam is about to oblige.
That’s not how this day ends.
Not until I get what I need. And if Adam gets in my way, brother or not, I will put him down.
I’m facing Adam, not the gun that is now pointed at my back. So I see him change in real time right in front of my eyes. “Why are you even here, Nick? Hmm?” He looks over my shoulder at Donovan, then around the room. And even though I can’t see where his gaze lands, I know exactly where it lands.
Right. On. Wendy.
Donovan clocks this—of course he does—and Wendy becomes the main event. “Do you have any idea, Wendy?” Donovan says. “Any idea at all?”
“What are you taking about?” She sounds a little confused. But not really. Like her answer is more rote than thoughtful. Something she feels obligated to say.
“Do you have any idea why you are so fucked up?”
“What?” Wendy looks at me, her eyes starting to fill up with questions. “Why does everything with people have to be such a fuckin’ mystery? Why does every word that comes out of your mouths have to be a damn puzzle? Can’t you ever just say what you mean?”
“Oh”—Donovan smiles from the corner—“you want me to say what I mean? OK. Let’s cut to the chase. Wendy here is impatient. Wendy, darling, I might not know you well, but people like you. You’re a likable girl. So I’m going to spell it out for you in the interest of time. I don’t have your cure, sweetie.”
The gun is still pointed at my back. Which means it’s pointed at all of us.
It’s kinda dumb, really. How good of a shot could Donovan Couture be? He’s not like the rest of us. Not even a little bit like the rest of us.