The Second Killer

The river’s current had become a soundtrack of dread, its gurgle a mockery of peace. Chris’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes locked on the tableau before him: Mike, his face a mask of smug triumph, stood with his hands raised slightly, a gesture of false surrender. Beside him, Christina’s hand had dipped into her jacket, emerging with a sleek, black pistol that gleamed in the weak moonlight.

“She’s the one,” Mike repeated, his voice slick with conviction. “Trey’s death, the barricade—all her. I was just trying to survive.”

Yasmine pulled Monte and Marie closer, her body a shield. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, darted between Christina and Mike. “Don’t listen to him, Chris. He’s lying.”