Page 82 of The Hitman’s Final Job

Silas trembles beside me, but I’m not watching him.

I’m looking at Rowan.

Rowan, who has taken one step toward us and stopped. Rowan, who is staring down at his own chest, his hand coming up to touch it as his shirt fills with a deep crimson.

My son, who is falling.

I rush across the space between us and catch him, or try to. We both go down, my knees on the ground and Rowan’s weight against me.

“Rowan.” I’m saying his name, and my hands are on his chest and they’re wet and red.

There are more fireworks. The crowd is still cheering.

My son is on the ground with blood seeping through his shirt and my hands are red and I can’t— I can’t⁠—

“Rowan!” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Rowan, keep your eyes on me.”

He slowly opens his eyes and struggles to focus on me. He looks so scared.

“Someone call an ambulance.” I don’t know how loud I’m saying it. I don’t know if anyone can hear me over the fireworks. “Is there a doctor here? Someone call an ambulance. Please.”

People are turning. The crowd is shifting.

“Dad.” Rowan’s voice is quiet. Too quiet. “Dad, I⁠—”

“Don’t talk,” I say. “Don’t talk; just stay with me.”

“Dad—”

“Rowan. Look at me. Right here. Stay with me.”

His eyes stay on mine for another moment.

Then they close.

“No.” The word comes out of me like something breaking. “No, Rowan. No.”

I press my hands harder against his chest. Tears fall from my face onto his shirt. I’m pressing my hands against my son’s chest in the middle of the Pine Ridge Pumpkin Festival while the fireworks finish above us and the crowd around us shifts from celebration to confusion, and I’m saying his name, and he’s not answering.

“Silas.” I look up. “Silas, help me. I need⁠—”

Silas is gone.

The space where he was standing is empty.

I turn back to Rowan and continue pressing, saying his name, scanning his face, and waiting for his eyes to open.

The crowd has cleared around us.

“The ambulance is on its way.” It might be Clay who says it.

“He’ll be okay.” That’s likely Teresa.

“He’s going to be okay.” I don’t know if I’m saying it to Rowan or to myself. “You’re going to be okay. The ambulance is coming. You’re going to be okay.”

The fireworks have stopped.

The band has stopped.