Too loud.
I swallowed down the bile in my throat and turned toward the body.
He lay crumpled where I left him, his head tilted at an angle that shouldn't be possible, limbs twitching once. Blood pooled beneath his skull, seeping into the cracked concrete.
And in his fingers—the gun.
It was still there, gripped tight, his knuckles locked around it like his body hadn't caught up to the fact that he was dead.
For a second, I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Take it. The thought screamed in my head, but my feet felt nailed to the floor.
I didn't want to touch him.
Didn't want to feel the cooling skin, the slick of blood, the way his body was still so freshly ruined beneath my hand. But I had to.
With a sharp breath, I forced myself forward.
I crouched, my legs trembling as I reached for the pistol. My fingers brushed the metal. His grip hadn't loosened yet. The rigor hadn't set in.
I yanked.
His hand didn't let go.
