Deep Shadows by Vannetta Chapman Page A

T-shirt and dirty jeans.
    â€œLower the gun, son.” Max had his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
    Patrick was on the ground providing first aid to a middle-aged woman. Shelby’s mind flashed back to the evening before and the attempted hijacking—Max trying to help the guy and Patrick pointing a gun at his head. It was as if the same scene was playing out in front of her eyes, only this time it was Abney people. Patrick was still helping the woman on the ground, but he wouldn’t stay there for long. His gaze kept returning to Rodney.
    â€œLower the gun,” Max repeated.
    â€œNot until he gives me the car keys.”
    â€œI won’t,” Mr. Evans said. “The car is not yours.”
    â€œGive me the keys!”
    Mr. Evans shook the keys at him. “You think this will fix your life? Grow up, son. Take responsibility—”
    Rodney fired three times, and the impact of bullets hitting his chest lifted Mr. Evans off the ground and sent him crashing backward. Those who had been watching began to scream, fighting to put distance between themselves and the desperate kid. Max turned toward the old man and was kneeling down to help him when Rodney scooped up the keys and jumped into the automobile.
    Shelby started to run after him, but the car peeled away from the curb.
    Patrick’s attention remained focused on the woman, who sobbed uncontrollably. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage on her arm. Max whispered something to the old man, attempting to calm him.
    Bianca clung to Shelby’s hand, holding her back from danger. But there wasn’t anything to fear. Not anymore. Tires squealing, Rodney was already turning toward Main Street. Headed where? What would possess him to kill someone for an automobile?
    Shelby made out Mr. Evans’s words: “Wasn’t his car.” When he coughed, she saw blood staining his lips.
    â€œTry to stay quiet.” Max glanced up at Patrick. “Two chest wounds.”
    Max pulled off his shirt, using it to stanch the bleeding. Mr. Evans, whom she had talked to only hours before, lay motionless, staring up at the sky.
    â€œMr. Evans.” She pulled away from Bianca and dropped to the ground beside Max.
    â€œSomeone go for help,” Bianca cried. She hurried over to a teenager who was gawking at the scene. “Go. Go now!”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œTo the library. EMS personnel are stationed there. Rápidamente . Go!” She gave the boy a shove.
    He turned, stumbled, and then took off running toward the library.
    Shelby glanced back down at Mr. Evans. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. People murdered in broad daylight? On her street? By their neighbor?
    â€œHelp is on the way.” She clasped the old man’s hand, her heart slamming against her chest, her mind trying to make sense of the growing puddle of blood beneath him.
    Mr. Evans smiled once, a small trembling thing, and then he glanced over her shoulder, sighed, and stopped breathing.
    â€œNo. No, no, no, no—”
    â€œHe didn’t have a chance.” Patrick reached up and closed Mr. Evans’s eyes. “The kid was standing so close. The bullets literally tore a hole in his chest.”
    Shelby wanted to argue with Patrick, but she could only cling to her neighbor’s hand, silently begging him to open his eyes. Some of the crowd had returned. They clustered together, crying and weeping. The woman who had been injured was groaning—whether from shock or pain, Shelby couldn’t tell.
    She didn’t let go of Mr. Evans’s hand until someone brought a bedsheet, and Max helped Patrick cover him.
    Max glanced at her and asked in a low voice, “Are you okay?”
    She nodded, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand, willing her tears to stop. Everything they’d seen in the last several hours had seemed like television. But the moment that she held Mr. Evans’s hand and