hey y'all! sorry there's been a little more of a break!

NO REVIEWS?! SERIOUSLY? GRAY IS DYING ON THE FLOOR PEOPLE!

(never mind we got one! thank you dear guest! i'm afraid i'm about out of plot twists, but there are a couple more in store that i hope you enjoy!)

haha don't worry y'all! but i would love to hear your feedback!

*quick copyright-ish notice: I just re-read As Good As Dead (AGGGTM) today, and ik the gravery scene at the end of this chapter is very reminiscent of the pipravi one at the end of AGAD. it was already turning out that way before i realized this, and this last scene is mostly wish fulfillment for me bc the ending of AGAD is PUNISHING. I also use the expression "full circle," which is emphasized in AGAD. I don't own AGGGTM, obviously.*

ANYWAY! i would love y'all's feedback! pls let me know how this is turning out!

thanks y'all!

peace out!

—AVERY—

The drop to the hedge was farther than she'd like, and Avery's stomach swooped violently as she plummeted into the foliage. Twigs raked across her face; she barely managed to keep back a yelp.

"Ave!" Grayson's shout reached her ears, and she winced at how weak his voice sounded.

"I'm fine!" she called back up. "The police, Gray!"

Avery fought her way out of the hedge, gritting her teeth. A branch whipped across her cheek, and she felt the resulting scratch start to bleed. She ignored it as she stepped onto the grass and hefted the broadsword over her shoulder, fixing her sights on the tree that led up to the bridge.

She had to be fast. If she could time this correctly, Constance would follow her up the tree, and then…then this would be over. Unless, of course, Avery was shot before she could get into the tree, but she decided not to think about that.

Avery walked as slowly as she dared to the base of the tree. She wanted Constance to see her. Surely it wouldn't be long now.

It was difficult to climb the rain-slicked bark with a sword, but Avery managed, hooking the hilt through her belt loop and praying it wouldn't fall. She scaled the trunk slowly, watching the house. Any moment now, Constance would come around the side of the house—Avery had made sure her plan of going to the treehouse was audible.

What if she didn't hear? her brain said.

Shut up, she told it.

But what if she's not coming? What if she went after Gray?

Avery climbed faster.

She was nearly at the top of the tree, nearly to the bridge, when the gunshot rang out.

What seemed to be a flame-heated knife stabbed into her ankle, and Avery screamed. A high-pitched, wheedling laugh came from below as she dragged herself up onto the bridge.

There was no way she could walk across—her ankle was likely broken, maybe even shattered. She had a bullet in her leg.

But she'd handled being shot at before. She'd handled two medically induced comas and a broken neck. And Avery also had a sword and a bridge and the advantage.

Who was to say she couldn't handle this, too?

Avery threw herself forward, moving as quickly as she could across the bridge. As she'd expected, she couldn't put any weight on her ankle, but if that slowed her down enough to force Constance to follow her, so be it.

"Gray," Avery called, praying he wouldn't jump out the window after her. Constance needed to think he was in the treehouse. "Gray, stay there! Don't come out!"

"You can't hide him forever, little heiress," said Constance's voice. Avery stole a glance downward—the shooter was no longer on the ground. That meant she was climbing.

Avery hopped a few more feet, her breathing ragged, holding onto the rope for dear life. Another gunshot pierced through the blood rushing in her ears, and she shrieked, dropping onto her stomach on the ancient wood. Crawling it is, then.

She reached the end of the bridge and pulled herself up on the wall of the alcove, shifting all of her weight to her good foot as she desperately unhooked the sword from her jeans.

"Don't come out," she rasped as loudly as she could. "Don't come out, Gray, she's coming."

Avery leaned against the wood, sweat streaming suddenly down her neck and back. She didn't dare look at her foot—she didn't want to see the bones or the blood or whatever casualties there happened to be.

Instead she lifted her gaze to Constance, who was stepping onto the bridge with her rifle raised.

"Step aside," said Constance.

"I—I'll fight you," Avery gasped, brandishing the sword and infusing her voice with as much fear as possible. "If you touch him—"

"Give me the boy," said Constance as she advanced. "Give him to me and I will let you live."

"He didn't do it," Avery said fiercely, hoping it would throw Constance. "You think he's the only one who could have done it. But I know better."

Constance froze, just past halfway across the bridge. "What?"

"You have the wrong Hawthorne," Avery said. "On all counts—Gray's not even here. He's in the library."

"You're lying," Constance rasped, not lowering her rifle. "I don't—"

"No, I'm not. And Gray did not kill Tobias Hawthorne." Avery let her lips curl into a smirk. "Xander did."

Constance whipped around, bolted back toward the end of the bridge, back toward the House where Xander and Max lay defenseless in the entrance hall and Grayson in the library, and Avery slashed the broadsword through the air and cut the ropes.

The scream was otherworldly. Avery closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into the alcove's wooden doorframe as the bridge fell with a horrible cacophony of snapping planks—or bones, she thought with a shudder—and a final, dull thud, which abruptly cut off the scream.

Avery, hands shaking and sweaty, dropped the sword. It clattered to the ground, and she edged forward, clenching her jaw against the pain in her ankle and steeling herself for what she was about to see.

Wooden planks were strewn across the ground twenty feet below, barely held together by the mossy rope, and in the middle of it all Constance lay motionless on the wet grass, her neck and legs twisted at unnatural, grotesque angles. Something horribly dark was pooling around her body, seeping into the earth. Her eyes, glassy and unseeing, stared up at Avery, and the entire void seemed to be contained within them.

Constance Oren was dead.

"Oh," Avery choked out. "Oh, no—"

Twenty feet. That was it. Avery had wanted to incapacitate Constance, knock her out at the very least. Slow her down so she couldn't get to the people Avery cared about—to Gray. But she had never intended to kill her.

And yet, there Constance was, broken and bleeding and twisted and dead, and it was Avery's fault.

Her stomach churning, Avery limped into the alcove, then promptly fell to her knees and vomited onto the wooden floor. The image of Constance's body seemed imprinted onto her closed eyelids as she knelt there, retching, acid stinging her throat.

When the convulsions had stopped, Avery dragged herself blindly up and stumbled out of the alcove to the nearest ladder. She would have to point the police to Constance, tell them what happened.

And she had to get away from the broken bridge, the pool of blood…

Red and blue lights were flashing in the driveway when Avery limped around the side of the house. An ambulance, wailing in a way horribly similar to Constance's final scream, was idling as close to the front doors as it could get, and Avery gasped in horror as paramedics loaded Max into it.

Xander, his head tilted back and his eyes half-closed, was being carried out of the House by two more paramedics. Dark blood was streaming down his leg, leaving a trail of sanguine droplets down the front steps.

Where was Grayson?

"Help," Avery rasped, and she tried to hobble forward, but her ankle gave out and she fell to the ground with a soft cry. She didn't try to get up—she could only stare bleakly at the flashing lights, at Grayson's drying blood on her hands, which was and wasn't his. It was his because Avery had pressed her hands against his wound, checked to make sure that he wasn't dying, and yet the blood was Constance's too, because she was lying there dead and Avery was sitting here alive and the world as she knew it was crumbling.

"Avery!" called a voice, and then someone—another paramedic, probably—was crouching in front of her. "Are you alright? Can I help you?"

"The shooter," Avery forced out. "She…she's around the side of the house. She fell."

The paramedic called something to the police officers standing nearby, then returned her gaze to Avery. "Are you hurt? Do you need anything?"

"Gray," said Avery. "He was shot, he's in the library."

"We have people getting him," said the paramedic. "He's still alive, as far as I've heard. Were you shot as well?"

"Yes. In the ankle."

A quick examination found that the bullet was likely lodged in the bottom of Avery's tibia, and surgery would be required to dig it out. At that point, Avery was so jittery and terrified that she could barely speak, but the paramedic—whose name, Avery finally learned, was Layla—was eternally patient, wiping the blood off Avery's hands and cleaning out the worst of her scratches.

"There you go," said Layla as she scrubbed the last of the blood from Avery's fingertips. "Now, let's—"

Avery's gaze flicked to the front steps, and she screamed.

"Gray!"

A padded, bright yellow stretcher was being very carefully wheeled down the (thankfully not very steep) steps. Lying on the white sheets, held there by a strap around his chest, was Grayson—covered in blood and unconscious. As Avery watched, the stretcher reached level ground and was wheeled swiftly toward the ambulance.

"We'll get you in the ambulance with him," Layla reassured as Avery forced herself upright. "Can I help you walk over there?"

Avery nodded numbly, leaning most of her weight on the paramedic as they limped to the ambulance. Once inside, Layla helped her sit down on the end of Grayson's stretcher, and Avery looked over his face—the long fluttering lashes, the tousled hair falling over his face, the scarlet streaks across his forehead and cheek where he'd touched his face with a bloody hand. Grayson was unhealthily pale, unnaturally still.

"Is he going to be alright?" she whispered.

"As far as I know, Grayson hasn't lost an excessive amount of blood," said Layla, moving away as Xander, now more alert, was hoisted into the ambulance as well. "But that's all I can tell you. They'll sort it out at the hospital."

The ambulance doors were closed, and the last thing Avery saw before the vehicle pulled away from Hawthorne House were the flashes of light from hundreds of cameras.

Paparazzi? Here? Now? After a shooting? Had they no decency?

"Avery," said a small voice.

She put thoughts of the press out of her mind and looked up to see Xander staring at her, his lip trembling, his cheek bleeding—broken glass? His eyes were dark and bright all at once as he whispered, "I'm so sorry" and dissolved into tears.

"Oh, Xan," said Avery. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known she'd be there."

"But you came after us because I went to the House," Xander sniffled. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone, I promise. I just—I wanted to fix this." He looked at the stretchers and their occupants, and his face crumpled. "And now Gray and Max might die and it's all because of me."

Xander buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Avery wanted to comfort him, would have done so if the space or her ankle allowed, but she could only sit there on the stretcher, staring at all the blood and the tears as the sirens wailed.

The next few hours were all a blur—a swift-moving yet viscous blur, where time stopped and started with no regularity. Grayson and Max were both taken to surgery, and though Avery waited longer than they did, the nurses eventually took her to the operating room to remove the bullet from her ankle.

Her surgery was over quickly—or she thought it must have been—and the moment she woke out of the haze of anesthesia, she asked to see Grayson. "Is he awake?"

"Sure is," replied her nurse as he tapped away on the computer attached to the wall of Avery's hospital room.

"And is he alright?"

"Well, he's awake, isn't he?" He smiled. "Yes, he's fine."

"Was—did they have to take a bullet out?"

"I'm not sure, but the doctor will have told him if that's the case. You'll be able to ask Grayson when you go to see him."

After a quick checkup by the doctor—who confirmed that Avery's ankle was, in fact, in multiple pieces, but not permanently damaged—Avery was helped into a wheelchair, with an IV stand wheeled along behind it. She would have rolled to Grayson's room on her own, but the IV made that impossible, so the nurse took her on his way to check on Max.

When they reached Grayson's room, the nurse held the door open for her, then left with an annoyingly knowing smile. Avery took a deep breath and wheeled herself inside, bracing herself in case Grayson was…well, less okay than she would have liked—but it soon became clear that she needn't have worried.

All of the lights in the room were out, and Grayson was staring up at the ceiling, the head of his bed elevated so that he was half-propped up. Cut out of the ceiling, covered with beautifully clear glass, was a skylight, through which silvery shafts of moonlight fell onto the bed. From the waist down, Grayson was covered by a white blanket, but above that, he was dressed in a sky-blue hospital gown—a color that Avery thought suited him very well. His hair was extraordinarily messy, his cheeks still a little too hollow, but…

He looked fine.

In more ways than one, sang Avery's brain, but she stamped the thought down. "Gray?"

Grayson's eyes snapped to her, and then he smiled—so widely and brightly that Avery wondered if it hurt. "Ave."

"Gray," she whispered again, and she rolled over to the bed and, keeping her weight off her injured ankle, climbed in beside him—on the left side, of course, to avoid his wound.

Grayson shifted slightly to make room, and Avery pressed herself into the curve of his side, laying her head on his chest. The heartbeat that thumped beneath his skin was as steady as ever.

"This looks familiar," said Grayson.

"Only it's backwards this time," said Avery. "How was surgery? Did they have to take the bullet out?"

"No. It tore through more skin than I'd like, and it did graze my liver, but there was no extraction needed." Grayson sighed. "I do have thirty-three stitches, though."

"Are you serious?" Avery sat upright, her hand reaching unconsciously for Grayson's side before she froze. "Um, can I see?"

"Of course."

Grayson pulled down the blanket and opened the side of his hospital gown. Avery leaned across him, trailing her fingers over the warm skin until they met the puckered ridge of sutures. Avery brushed her fingertips over each stitch individually, silently ticking them off.

She looked up questioningly. "There are only nineteen."

"There are fourteen in my liver. Dissolvable, of course."

"That makes me feel much better."

"You don't look much better," Grayson observed. "I mean—you look beautiful, but you're hurt, Ave. What happened?"

Avery tilted her head. "You didn't hear?"

"No. I…I passed out after the 911 call," Grayson admitted. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure whether it was syncope or blood loss, but—"

Avery cut him off. "You held on as long as you could. I'm amazed you made it that far."

She stared upward through the skylight into the stars, drawing in the deepest breath she could muster as she prepared to launch into the explanation. "Are you sure you want to know, Gray? What happened? Because I…I don't think you'll want anything to do with me if you do."

"Hey." Grayson's voice pulled her back to earth. "Remember when I said I could never hate you?"

"Yes, but that was only regarding secrets. Not things I did."

"No, it wasn't. I distinctly remember throwing in a 'no matter what you do.'"

"Alright." Avery scooted to the end of the bed and took Grayson's hands in hers, feeling as though she needed to be facing him for this. "When did you pass out?"

"After about two minutes," said Grayson, a little guiltily. "I only had time to tell them Constance's identity and our situation."

About when Avery had been climbing the tree, then. "Okay. Don't blame yourself for passing out, got it? In fact, I'm glad you weren't awake. It might have messed up the plan." And you weren't in pain.

"The plan." Grayson smiled faintly. "Always the master plan with you, isn't it?"

"With both of us," Avery agreed. "Even if you didn't know it. But…I didn't mean for it to end this way."

"Someone's dead," Grayson whispered. "Aren't they?"

"Yes."

She squeezed his hands once, twice, swallowed the lump in her throat, and mumbled, "I killed Constance Oren."

His hands squeezed back, and there was no judgement in the silver eyes as Grayson said, "Tell me everything."

"I climbed the tree to the bridge," Avery said, her thumbs working small circles across Grayson's skin. "She saw me. Shot me in the ankle."

Sharply, he sucked in air, but she plowed on. "I crossed the bridge with your sword. I called out to you, pretending you were in the treehouse. It was your only chance, Gray. I—I was afraid if I didn't get her to follow me, she would get into the library somehow. That she'd kill you. And I couldn't do it, Gray. I just—"

"Save the justification for later," Grayson said. "What happened?"

"She followed me across the bridge," Avery mumbled. "I told her you didn't kill the old man, that Xan did it. Constance said she thought I was lying, but I knew she believed me, because she ran. And I…I cut the ropes."

"With the broadsword?" Grayson asked, his voice barely a breath.

"Yes. I shouldn't have done it. I should have waited for the police to get here. But all I could think was that she was going back to kill Xan, and he was still in the entrance hall, completely defenseless…"

The lump in Avery's throat had returned, and her eyes had started burning. "Constance fell. It was only twenty feet, I didn't think it was going to kill her. But then I looked down and the bridge was in pieces and so was she—she was all twisted and—and staring at me, and the blood—"

So so so much blood—blood on her hands, soaking into her veins, drowning out the world—

Avery's stomach clenched, and she drew in a guttural breath as the room spun and lightning seemed to arc through her body, starting in her gut and shooting through her cheeks and limbs.

She was shaking. When had she started shaking? Did it matter, when all that existed were blank dead eyes? Broken wood? Severed ropes and splintered swords?

"Ave," said the voice from underwater. "Avery, please, listen to me—"

"I'm a murderer," she rasped, unable to see anything but swathes of light and darkness. "A monster, Gray, you don't understand—"

"I do understand, Ave, listen!"

Grayson was still gripping her hands, his palms slick and sweaty. "My whole life I've blamed myself for every little thing that went wrong. You saw how much that hurt people—how much it hurt you. I hated myself, and that hurt me and everyone else. It's dangerous to blame yourself for things you can't control, Avery. It was an accident, alright? You didn't mean to kill her."

"But—" Avery could barely get the words out. "What if I did?"

"You didn't," Grayson insisted. "And that's all that matters."

"But this isn't a little thing," Avery argued. The world was coming back into focus now. "This is bigger than anything I've ever done. It's not wrong to blame myself because I could control it, and I did it. Sure, maybe I didn't mean to kill her, but if not, then what? What did I mean to do if it wasn't that? I still meant to hurt her so badly she couldn't get to you. Constance was innocent, and because of me, she died."

"But three people are alive because of you."

Grayson knew he was losing the argument. Avery could tell.

"And one is dead," she whispered. "And I'm just like Nash. And here you are, trying to cover up a murder. Again."

She smiled sadly. "Funny how these things always come full circle."

Grayson stared at her, and Avery saw terror in his gaze, fear that he would lose her after so long waiting.

"Please don't go to them," he whispered. "Please, Ave. Just don't tell anyone. Say she fell. That bridge has been weak for years; it's entirely plausible for it to have failed now."

"But I dropped the sword," she countered. "It's there at the bottom of the tree. They'll know I cut the ropes."

Avery watched the gears in Grayson's mind turn, struggling for an answer. "Constance could have dropped it. She had it during the fight. Her fingerprints will be on it."

"So will ours."

"We'll tell the police the truth, then. Say we wrestled for it, which we did, but she took it, which she did."

"It'll still look like the ropes were cut—"

"Will it?" Desperation, a sense of grasping at straws. "They're old, and it's raining. It might not look like that at all. We could go back, fray the ends more if we need to."

"Gray," said Avery firmly. "The police are already there. If they suspect it wasn't an accident, there is nothing we can do. If they decide to look into it, then…well, it's not like I want to go down for murder, but what choice do I have?"

"Deny it all." Grayson's voice was fierce. "You did not kill her, Ave, not on purpose, and I will not lose you or Nash or Xan. We are getting out of this and back to Vantage together."

His voice cracked, broke. "Please, Avery. I know I'm selfish. I always have been. But I can't lose you. Not now. Not again. Even if I turned myself in and went down for being an accessory after the fact, I couldn't see you in prison. Neither could Libby or Max. Please, come back to Vantage with me, and everything can be just like it's supposed to. We'll make a plan. We always do."

"You already have one," said Avery. "Don't you?"

Grayson sighed, gripping her hands more tightly. "How could I not?"

At Avery's raised eyebrow, he explained, "I think we should get Xan and Max and fly back to Vantage. Ian won't mind; he'll take us back. Xan is like a son to him now. I can get you your promise ring, and we can get married, eventually. We could have kids if you want, and they'd be safe from everything here, and we'd change our names if we had to, be something new, and never lose each other—"

Grayson had lost his composure entirely, his normal speech slipping. He was crying now, dewy tears quivering on his eyelashes. "And it's selfish, I know, but if we can't be together I may as well have died on the library floor."

There was a burning in Avery's eyes, too, and she looked at that beautiful broken boy sitting across from her and knew that she owed him at least this, that, if nothing else, she must try to save what they had become.

Just like Grayson had.

Because she loved it—she loved him—and she loved the plans he had for their future, and the tentative, hopeful ones Avery had made were so close to Grayson's that it didn't seem like a coincidence.

So she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Grayson's shoulders and whispered, "Okay."

Grayson held her tightly, his embrace fierce and gentle at the same time, and Avery silently promised that she would do everything she could to remain with him, with the boy—the man—that had given up everything he'd once held dear for her.

Some things could be gambled—freedom, reputation, even life.

This?

This could not.