Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Price: Guilt is Bulletproof

They were inches apart. Nolan started to reach out, but dropped his hand by his side. Disgusted. He was disgusted by her, and that alone made Price furious.

"So? Do you?"

Charliegh lifted her chin. Her compassion, even when her confidence was shaken, emanated from her uneven posture and her tilted eyes, the twist of her narrow mouth. "Yes," she said quietly. "And that's why I'm standing here. Because you can't stand to live with any reminder - anyone - of your guilt."

Nolan knocked her collarbone with the butt of his gun. "That's enough of a reason to shoot?"

"For someone like you? Absolutely."

Price held his breath. Strangely, Nolan didn't look angry. He appeared bemused, somewhat discomfited that his secret had been revealed. But when he took a step back, he seemed cautious. Charliegh could summarize too much about him - things that could not be spoken in front of an audience.

"Keep walking," He said. "I'm watching. And if you stop, I'll put a bullet -" he gestured to Price, "-right through his forehead."

Nine minutes. Ten. It had to have been at least ten by now. Price watched Charliegh take one tentative step. Nolan was retreating. But the air was still quite, untainted by the travesty of the moment. By the time he reached the sand, Charliegh was up to her belly button. He paced alongside his friends, bare feet kicking up sand.

Her face was hidden. A tangle of greenish hair, like bracken, had fallen over her profile. And the rest of her wasn't worth looking at - it was her humiliation, and Price wished to play no larger a part in that.

Eleven. At eleven minutes, Price let his shoulders sag in defeat. And just as he prepared for his final moment - in which he was planning to either save Charliegh or punch Nolan - the scream of the cop cars pierced through the trees.

"Freakin' crap!" One of his friends bolted to his feet, wolf like in his swiftness. "Someone told them off." He extended one lean arm, pulling the girl to her feet.

"Wait!" Nolan glared at them, pulling themselves up and dusting the sand off their shoes. "You can't leave! We had this planned."

The siren sounds increased. The boy shifted nervously. "This wasn't part of the plan! If we get arrested, they'll nail us for that Randall kid."

"No more pot. Or tattoos."

"Look, man," his friend said, "You won't have a body to pump drugs into." All three grabbed their belongings and mounted their bicycles, scattering from the shoreline just as the coughing of car exhaust screeched to a halt.

"You did this! You called the cops!" Nolan shoved the gun in Price's directions, face twisted with fury. His cheeks were flushed with color. He was screwed, and he knew it.

Who do you think was lingering on Price's tongue, but his feet were already moving, almost of themselves. He slogged through the water towards Charliegh, who was locked in a shoulder-high standstill.

"Hey! You can't run from me, Olsen!"

His lungs were burning, muscles screaming in protest, but he struggled forward. His eyes were fixed firmly on Charliegh. And as he watched, her face went white with terror. She splashed her arms, trying to pull herself closer. Yet just as she began to scream, a warning that reverberated across the lake, he felt an ember explode behind his shoulder blade.

The pain was immediate and excruciating. There was a fire in his muscles, rendering his left arm immobile. He slumped forward, teeth gritted. Blood was pooling under his armpit, sticking his cheap cotton shirt to his heaving chest. His pulse hammered in his ears.