"I shot my sister," I admitted, numbly, realizing I hadn't even looked to see if she was still alive, if she had been carted away in an ambulance too.
"Miss Moreno clearly acted tonight in self-defense," Bishop interjected.
"Yeah, we get it. She did nothing wrong. You are going to make sure that everyone knows that. We've done this dance more than a few times before, Blake. Can we dispense of the formalities?" Lloyd asked.
"I'm afraid that the formalities are paramount in situations such as this, Detective," Bishop insisted.
"Fine. Let's get on with it," Lloyd said, sighing.
My brain felt foggy, thick and hard to pull any coherent thoughts out of the ooze. I think I explained about Luca forgetting his phone, about my sister showing up, about us arguing, about Luca coming back, trying to deescalate the situation.
And then Celenia pulled a gun.
And Luca and I took turns trying to protect each other.
The rest, I trailed off, waving a hand around—they could see for themselves.
There was a clicking sound, drawing all our attention to the side where we watched another stretcher being led out of the back of an ambulance, making a beeline for a shadowed body on the ground, getting a head shake from the female officer.
Bishop and Lloyd looked back at me, both their eyes a mask of concern as the truth settled on me.
I had killed her.
I killed my sister.
It felt like the ground was pulled out from under me, like I was falling.
And then, I guess, I actually was, because Bishop's arms grabbed me, steadied me.
"As you can see, my client clearly needs medical assistance," he insisted. "There will be time for questioning later."
I wasn't fully aware of a lot that happened after.
I was led over to an ambulance.
I was shuffled inside, had hands on me. Then we were moving, driving across town.
I was wheeled into an emergency room and immediately into a room.
There were shots and needles and pain medicine strong enough to knock me out.
When I woke up an indeterminate time later, I shot up out of the bed, ripping the blood pressure monitor off my finger, flying off the bed, going for the door, finding Bishop Blake standing there.
"How long was I out?" I demanded, voice hitching again. More useless tears.
"About an hour only," he told me.
"Am I going to be arrested?"
"No."
"Can you really be that certain?"
"Yes," he told me with a nod, then a small smile, showing off toothpaste commercial white teeth. "Neither you or Luca are going to be in trouble for this."
"But the gun," I whispered, glancing around at the doctors and nurses who were pretending not to glance our way. I could practically hear their thoughts: That's the woman who was involved with the mafia shootout.
"Was legal and registered to Mr. Grassi. He had a permit to carry. And no one can take away his second amendment rights, nor his God-given right to defend himself. Or for you to defend yourself when he