"What?" I finally manage to say out of pure confusion.
"Frank's dead. We have to go," he says, then kicks open the severely dented door.
"What?!" This time there's a clear shock. "He can't be. He's—" I turn to look at him. He's slumped over the steering wheel, his body limp. Blood is pooling over the dashboard that's covered in shattered glass, a clear bullet hole marking the side of his head.
A sobbing gasp escapes my lips, no, no, no, no! What will I tell Charlotte? What will I do without his sarcastic remarks? Frank became like a friend—a family to me. I feel a part of myself being ripped away as I breathe in heavily for air. How many more people will be at risk because of me? How many more people do I have to lose?
