who

door, flinging it open. The noise of the street outside was deafening in the deathly silence of the store.
“Liane, wait!” Kayla shouted. Not even glancing back at her, Liane ran through the doorway and out into the street.
Kayla tried to get up and follow her, but ­another tide of dizziness washed over her. She slumped back against the magazine rack.
“ . . . help me . . .” a weak voice whispered, very close to her. “ . . . please . . .”
She looked around for the source of the voice, then realized, with a tiny start of fear, who it was. She stared at the gunman, lying on the blood‑stained floor not quite three feet away from her. “W‑what?”
“Heal me,” he whispered, his face contorted with pain. “I know you can do it, I saw you help the boy. Please.”
She edged away from him, shaking her head. He grabbed for her hand, pulling her close. “Please . . .” His face was very pale, his lip bleeding where he'd bitten it in pain. He placed her hand on his chest, rising and falling with each painful breath, against the torn flesh and warm wet blood.
He killed those two people, she thought. And he nearly killed Billy. And he would've killed me and Liane, too, but now . . .
Now his eyes were human again, not smiling ­inhumanly at something she couldn't see or understand. She could feel her hands tingling again, that strange feeling like something was going to happen.
I should help Billy, he's still hurting, his leg is still bleeding. I shouldn't