Chapter 7

"NO!" I scream. My voice sounds almost as if it's underwater. I exchange a panicked look with Miranda, and I race forward. She, however, stands rooted to her spot, frozen in shock.

I can't believe I've just witnessed a murder.

I kneel down next to Philip. My heart races. He's dead. What are we going to tell the Hamiltons?

And then I see his eyelids flutter, and I realize that he's still breathing shallowly. Hope blooms in my mind.

I turn to Eacker. He's standing there, gun still in hand.

I can't tell him Philip's alive, I realize. He'll just shoot him again to finish the job.

I lick my lips and stare Eacker in the eyes.

"You killed him," I say. "He's dead."

I hear Miranda choke back a sob. I feel awful that I'm lying in front of her, but at the same time, I'm relieved; if my best friend can't tell I'm lying, neither can Eacker.

To my absolute disgust, he grins. "Perfect," he wheezes. And with that, he turns and walks calmly away from the scene, standing proudly. I glare at his back until he disappears from view.

The moment he's out of earshot, I look at Miranda.

"We need to get Eliza and Mr. Hamilton," I tell her urgently.

She sniffs. "How are we supposed to tell them that their son is dead?"

"He's not dead!" I cry. "He's alive!"

Miranda blinks. "What?"

"I lied. I didn't want Eacker to know he was alive or he would have just shot him again-"

"- and then Philip would have actually died," Miranda finishes. She nods slowly. Then she turns and starts sprinting away from me.

"I'm going to get help!" she calls over her shoulder. "Stay there!"

"Okay," I whisper into the darkness. And then I'm left alone, kneeling in the street next to a figure from the past who is struggling to stay alive.

"Stay alive," I hum to myself, trying to silence the buzzing in my brain. "Stay alive…"

By the time I finish singing "Stay Alive," I hear frantic footsteps coming up the street. Miranda comes into view, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton right behind her.

"Philip!" Eliza sobs, rushing to her son's side. Her face is covered in tears.

"My son," whispers Alexander. He stoops down to Philip's side. Then he looks at me. "Where was he hit?"

"His right arm," I respond immediately.

Mr. Hamilton then scoops up his son and gently rests him in his arms. I'm surprised; Philip is taller than his father, who seems a bit on the small side, and yet Alexander picks him up like he weighs nothing.

"Quickly, Eliza," he tells his wife. "Go get the doctor. Tell him to come to our house. Now."

"Okay, Alex," she answers. I hear a new steel in her tone that I haven't noticed before. She departs quickly, her boots clacking down the cobblestone.

Mr. Hamilton carries Philip down the street at a pace so fast, Miranda and I have to practically jog to keep up with him. We arrive at their house quicker than I would have thought possible.

I push open the front door and step into the living room. Alexander steps in right behind me and strides to the couch, lying Philip down.

I hear Miranda's shaky breath as she enters the house last, gently shutting the door.

We both stand awkwardly at the side of the room. Mr. Hamilton pays us no attention whatsoever, and, to be honest, I don't blame him. His son is dying.

I startle as the front door bursts open with a bang. Eliza sweeps into the room, a man standing in the entrance behind her. He's wearing a long white coat over a long-sleeved brown shirt and trousers. His black loafers look freshly shined, but his thinning blond hair is messy, as if he'd just rolled out of bed. His face looks tired but his eyes are alert, and in his hand, he's carrying a large leather briefcase.

Without a word, he walks over to the couch, putting his fingers to the side of Philip's throat.

As he does so, Eliza disappears into the kitchen, returning with a chair. She drags the chair to the couch, placing it close to Philip's head, and the doctor sits down.

"Is there anything we can get you, Jacob?" Mr. Hamilton asks the doctor. "Any way we can help?"

"No thank you, Alexander," Dr. Jacob answers. "Not yet."

He lifts his briefcase onto his lap and clicks it open, pulling out a stethoscope. He begins to listen to Philip's heartbeat.

At that moment, Eliza notices me and Mandy, huddling in a corner.

"Girls," she says quietly. "Maybe it's best if you go upstairs."

I nod mutely. We trudge up the steps and into the dark upstairs hallway, entering our bedroom and shutting the door.

I feel like I'm walking through wet cement as I make my way to my bed and sit down. Miranda sits on my bed too, burying her face in my pillow. She lifts her head up to look at me.

"He has to live," she whispers. Her face is illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. "He just has to."

"I know," I choke out. My throat is bone-dry. I can barely talk.

"What do we do?" My best friend sounds desperate. "They've been so nice to us… and I can't help but feel that this is our fault…"

"It's not our fault." My voice comes out sharper than I intend it to. I sigh. I feel guilty. Did we do this, somehow? By messing up the past?

"He would have died," I mumble. "And we saved his life. That's a good thing… right?"

There's a moment of silence before Mandy answers me. "Right…" she says slowly. "There's still hope. He might live."

And there's the word- might. He might live.

Chances are slim.

Tension weighs down on my shoulders. Though it's probably well past midnight, I know there's no way I can sleep.

"Stay alive," I hear Mandy whisper into the darkness.

I swallow hard, a tear sliding down my face. "Stay alive."