Excerpt of Murder Freshly Baked by Vannetta Chapman

Tate pulled the camera strap from around his neck and handed the camera to Hannah as he rushed forward. Amber and Tate reached Ryan’s side at the same moment. Shrugging off his outer shirt, Tate rolled it into a bundle and pressed it against what was left of Ryan’s chest.

“Pressure on the wound,” Tate murmured, waiting to move until Amber had her hands pressed firmly on top of the cloth.

She glanced down at the wound in Ryan’s chest, then looked away as bile rose in her throat. Slowly she forced her gaze back to the man lying on the ground. Ryan’s wavy black hair was wet with sweat. His face was unnaturally pale, and his eyes were closed.

“Is he—”

“He’s bleeding out. Looks like the bullet went through his heart. I’ll check for a pulse.” But one look in Tate’s eyes told her all she needed to know.

The white T-shirt Ryan had been wearing read “Forty and Loving It.” The letters were splattered and torn from the violence of the wound, and the cloth had turned crimson. Tate moved so that he was positioned alongside Ryan’s head. Pressing his index and middle fingers to Ryan’s neck, he checked for a heartbeat at the carotid artery. The sounds around them faded to background noise.

To Amber it seemed she heard the cries and shouts as if from a great distance. Some woman continued to scream. A child asked a parent what was wrong. The person who had been running the portable public address system, moments ago announcing the names of each person as they crossed the finish line, now urged caution. The piercing wail of an ambulance added to the chaos. It had been stationed in the parking area in case a runner needed oxygen or fluids.

But fluids wouldn’t help Ryan.
Oxygen wouldn’t bring him back.
She closed her eyes and prayed with all her might—prayed that God would have mercy on Ryan, that God would save him.

She became aware of Pam’s hand on her shoulder, her voice soft and low, her accent Southern, urging her to come away. “Let the paramedics have him, honey.”

“I have to . . . I have to hold this.” Tate’s shirt was now slick in her hands. Tate stood and shook his head once. Jack Lambright, who had worked at the Village as a boy but had been with the EMS for at least five years now, jumped out of the ambulance and crouched beside Ryan. He spoke into his radio, his voice urgent and clipped. She heard him say “GSW” and “fatality,” and then Tate was pulling her to her feet, circling his arms around her.