Simon Says Die

her hurt ankle, and to her relief she was able to stand pain-free. “Yeah, thanks.” She laughed. “Aren’t we a pair? You with your bruised ribs, and me falling all over the place like a drunk.”
    A slow smile curved his mouth. “At least we—”
    A scream filled the air. Pierce grabbed Madison and hauled her against his side.
    â€œWhere did it come from?” she asked.
    â€œUp ahead, around the corner.”
    Another scream, shouts. A wave of tourists began running down the block in the same direction where the biker had gone. Shouts of “call nine-one-one” sounded from up ahead.
    Pierce tensed beside Madison. He put his hand on the small of her back. “How’s that ankle?”
    â€œIt’s fine. I just lost my balance. I know you want to help. Let’s go.” She took off at a jog, and he grabbed her hand, keeping her close as they both hurried to the end of the block.
    They were forced to stop because of the wall of people crammed into the street. Sirens sounded in the distance.
    Pierce, taller than most of those around them, craned his neck as he tried to see what everyone was looking at. When he turned back toward Madison, his entire body radiated tension. He urged her over to the wall of the building beside them. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
    â€œWait, what did you see?”
    But he was already pushing his way through the crowd. Red and blue lights flashed as a police car turned onto the other end of the street.
    Madison gave up trying to see anything. But soon the crowd began to part and move back as one of the police officers who’d arrived worked to move people out of the way. “Unless you’re a witness, move along. Make room,” he barked.
    People grumbled and complained but moved back.
    The man directly in front of Madison stepped to the side, and she finally saw what everyone else was looking at.
    Lying in the middle of the road, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, was the young man who’d cursed at Madison just moments before. His bike was discarded beside him and his sightless eyes stared up at the bright, sunny sky that he would never see again.
    Madison gasped and clutched her throat.
    Pierce was crouching next to the body, beside a police officer. From the gestures the officer was making, the two of them appeared to be discussing a white sheet of paper lying on the dead man’s stomach.
    Madison clutched her throat and turned away. On the other side of the street, directly across from her, a familiar figure stood in the crowd. She couldn’t see his face. The hood of his denim jacket was pulled up over his head. But she knew who he was.
    Damon.
    Madison screamed Pierce’s name, and Damon disappeared back into the crowd. The people around her moved back, and suddenly Pierce was beside her, gripping her shoulders.
    â€œMads, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He ran his hands up and down the sleeves of her jacket, as if searching for injuries.
    She shook her head and leaned to the side to try to see around him. She whipped her head back and forth, searching the crowd.
    Pierce gave her a little shake. “What is it? Why did you scream?”
    She swallowed past her thickness in her throat. “Damon, I saw Damon.”
    P IERCE ENDED THE call and shoved his phone in the pocket of his suit jacket. The café he and Madison had been in an hour ago had been completely transformed into an impromptu police headquarters. Police officers stood around talking, or sitting at tables interviewing witnesses.
    Not that there were any real witnesses. So far no one had stepped up to say they’d seen whoever killed the bicyclist.
    Pierce rubbed Madison’s back in the chair next to him. “You sure you’re okay?”
    â€œI’m sure. Quit worrying about me. What did Hamilton say?”
    â€œPretty much what you’d expect.”
    â€œHe thinks I imagined seeing Damon.”
    â€œThat sums it up. However, he does believe you saw the shooter. So he’s taking the statement you gave very seriously.”
    â€œI know Damon is the shooter. Do you . . . think he killed that boy?”
    â€œYou saw a man fitting the description of the shooter, wearing the same denim jacket. But you didn’t see his face. You don’t know that it was Damon. Was there blood on his jacket?”
    She crossed her arms. “Not that I saw, no.”
    â€œThat boy was