Killer Season. Lara Lacombe
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“I know you.”
Fiona opened her eyes at the intrusion to see a uniformed police officer staring at Hot Guy, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Hot Guy stared back, his brows drawn together while he considered the other man. “Steve, right?” he said slowly.
The officer nodded. “And you’re—?” He let the question trail off, inviting Hot Guy to supply his name.
“Nate Gallagher. Homicide.”
The officer nodded, recognition dawning. “Gallagher. You were the MVP of the last police-fire softball game. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before!”
Nate smiled faintly. “I’m glad you recognized me. I knew I was taking a chance having my gun pointed in your direction.”
Steve shook his head. “I’m not gonna lie—I didn’t appreciate that. You’re lucky we saw what was happening when we pulled in.”
Nate shrugged, then pulled Fiona closer to his side. “I couldn’t let him hurt her,” he said simply.
The officer transferred his gaze to Fiona, as if noticing her for the first time. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She nodded. Why did they keep asking her that? It’s not like they could do anything to help her if she told the truth.
“We need to take your statement,” he said, holding up an arm to gesture her forward. She moved reluctantly, not wanting to leave the security of Nate’s side. Even though their contact was limited to his hand on her shoulder, she still felt comforted by his presence.
Now that Nate and the other officer were no longer talking, Fiona realized that the robber’s moans of pain had stopped, leaving the store silent except for the intermittent crackle of the police radio. As she cleared the aisle and glanced down, Fiona saw the man was unconscious, lying in a small pool of blood.
She swallowed hard at the sight, her instincts urging her to put as much distance between them as possible. He’d been so rough and strong, jerking her around the store, but now, lying on the dirty floor with his face slack, he seemed very small and powerless.
Rationally, she knew the man couldn’t hurt her, unconscious and handcuffed as he was. Still, her body refused to move any closer, and she stood frozen in place, panic climbing up her spine to wrap choking fingers around her throat.
Another officer was kneeling by the man, halfheartedly pressing a wad of gauze to his shoulder. The officer glanced up at her and offered an absent nod. She nodded back mechanically, and he frowned.
“Are you all right, miss? You look a little pale.”
“I, uh—”
She couldn’t get the words out, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “I think I need to use the bathroom.”
Fiona turned to the right and practically ran for the bathroom, yanking open the door with such force that it bounced off the wall to slam shut. She flipped the lock and collapsed onto the toilet, leaning forward with her arms wrapped tight around her stomach.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her thoughts were a twisted jumble as she rocked back and forth, the events of the past half hour crashing over her anew. She hadn’t had time to think or even panic in the moment, but now that the danger had passed, she couldn’t seem to escape the flood of emotions that adrenaline had kept at bay.
Fiona pressed her fist to her mouth in an effort to muffle the quiet sobs. She had learned to stifle the sounds of her grief as she cared for her mother during her battle with cancer, but right now Fiona couldn’t stop the tears from falling. She ripped a ribbon of toilet paper off the roll and pressed it to her eyes, mopping up the tears before they could drip onto her shirt in a telltale sign of distress. She had to regain her composure so she could talk to the police, and then she could go home and cry in the privacy of her empty house.
She dropped the soggy toilet paper into the trash, then moved to the sink and splashed water on her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she toweled off and froze, her eyes fixed on the red mark that marred her temple. With shaking fingers, she reached up to touch the bumpy spot, feeling the definite imprint of the gun barrel.
So close. Her stomach twisted at the thought of her brains on the floor, and she quickly dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, making it just in time.
“Fiona?” Nate’s voice was quiet on the other side of the door, and Fiona wanted to sink into the floor tiles and disappear. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard her crying? Worse still, had he heard her throwing up?
“I’ll be right out,” she said, trying desperately to sound normal.
“Can I come in?”
God, no! The cloying sweetness of industrial air freshener had combined with the acrid stench of bile, making a new and entirely unappealing aroma that now permeated the small room. The last thing she needed was for Nate to come in and get blasted with the scent of her breakdown.
“Um, not right now,” she hedged, wiping her mouth with a wet paper towel and smoothing back her hair. “Just give me a second.”
He was silent, but something told her he hadn’t gone far. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, silently cursing herself for crying. Why couldn’t she be one of those women who was attractive when crying? Instead, she looked like some kind of allergic mess, with swollen eyes, puffy lips and blotchy red skin. That was bad enough, but the fact that she had to step out and face Detective Hottie, who hadn’t batted an eye at tonight’s events, made her feel even worse.
I can do this. Taking a deep breath, Fiona dabbed at the last lingering wetness on her cheeks and ran her palm down the front of her shirt to smooth out the wrinkles.
Her fragile defenses in place once more, she turned and opened the bathroom door.
Here I go.
Dammit, she’d been crying.
Nate could tell the minute she opened the door. She walked out with her shoulders back and head held high, her chin thrust upward in defiance and determination. But her eyes gave her away. Red rimmed and slightly swollen, they bore silent witness to her earlier tears.
He turned to follow her, but not before catching a whiff of the bathroom. Oh, honey.
She certainly wasn’t the first person to lose her lunch after such a stressful situation, but he hated that she’d had to experience it.
Joey was still out cold on the floor near the register, so he quickly steered her in the opposite direction, guiding her to walk the outer perimeter of the store on her way to the door. Not only did he want to spare her from seeing her attacker again, it gave him a chance to swipe a bottle of ginger ale as they walked past the refrigerated cases.
“Here you go,” he said, pressing the bottle into her hand with a smile. “Thought you might want this.”
She blushed but met his eyes. “Thanks,” she said softly, her mouth turning up at the corner. “Guess I wasn’t as quiet in there as I’d hoped.”
“Don’t feel bad,” he assured her, reaching up to lay a hand on her shoulder. For some reason, he couldn’t stop touching her, a fact that should have bothered him but didn’t. “I’ve seen 350-pound men cry like a baby after having a gun shoved in their face, so a little vomit is no big deal.”
She stared at the bottle for a few seconds, then shrugged and twisted off the cap.
“Something wrong?”
She shook her head. “I was just thinking that we’re not allowed to eat or drink anything from the store.”
“I’m happy to pay