He glanced sideways. The shooter was slumped half outside the car. The top of the man’s head—what was left of it—was resting on the road. A bullet had entered through his left eye and taken half his face with it. That was not a sight Clara needed to have seared in her mind, so Jonathon surreptitiously maneuvered himself so he fully blocked her view of the shooter’s body. “He’s dead,” he assured her.
A long sigh escaped her lips, and her eyes fell closed again.
“Clara, an ambulance is coming, but I need to know if you're hurt anywhere else,” he prompted since she had neglected to answer him.
Perhaps she wasn't even aware of any injuries she might have—she was clearly badly shaken up. When again she offered no response, he took it upon himself to run his hands up and down her body in search of injuries. Clara didn’t protest, nor did she wince at his movements. She was beginning to shake in earnest now—a combination of shock and cold, he presumed. There wasn't much he could do about her going into shock; the paramedics would deal with that when they got here, but he could at least wrap her up in some blankets and put her in his car. Shrugging out of his jacket, he eased her shoulders off the ground and slid it under her, then buttoned it up in front.
“I’m going to take her to the car,” he told Allina.
His partner nodded then hurried to their car, opening the back door, then the trunk where she retrieved some blankets. Jonathon gently hooked his arms under Clara’s knees and behind her back and scooped her up. As he stood, he took in the scene for the first time. There were three cops down; two were sitting up and talking, but one looked serious. A stray bullet must have caused a car on the other side of the freeway to crash, or the driver had been distracted by all the shooting and hit a pole. Four people stood around the vehicle, none appeared to have sustained more than minor injuries.
Carrying Clara to the car, he slid into the backseat and settled her on his lap. The idea of leaving her alone never even entered his mind. Nor did the idea of simply setting her down and sitting beside her. It was purely practical, he assured himself. She was cold, and his body heat would help to warm her. It had nothing at all to do with the initial jolt of attraction that had shot through him the moment he’d gotten close to her.
“Here you go.” Allina passed him the blankets and gave him a look he decided he didn’t want to decipher.
Wrapping Clara in the blankets, he tucked her head under his chin and tried hard not to like it when she snuggled closer.
* * * * *
4:32 P.M.
Someone was cradling her gently. Their hand was stroking her hair, and they were murmuring soothingly in her ear.
Knowledge of where she was and what had happened eluded her.
All she knew was that something was wrong with her.
She felt odd.
The voice whispering in her ear was calming, and the body she rested against was warm. Clara snuggled closer, seeking reassurance. Her body was shaking, she couldn’t stop it, and her throat ached horribly. She lifted a hand to her neck to try to find out why, but someone grasped it.
“Just rest, Clara,” the words rumbled in the chest she was slumped against. “The paramedics will be here soon; they’ll stitch your neck and give you some painkillers.”
Stitch her neck? Was it cut? Is that why it hurt?
Panic sliced through her, and she opened her eyes, trying to push herself into an upright position, but hampered by the fact that her arms were tucked inside a buttoned coat. Why didn’t she remember someone cutting her neck? What was wrong with her?
Seemingly reading her mind, the man who held her spoke softly, “You're in shock, Clara. The paramedics will be able to help you with that, too.”
In shock?
A stab of pain in her neck made her moan, but it also jolted her memory. The man in her car had held a knife to her throat. Sliced the tip of the blade through her skin. So much blood had flowed out that she’d been afraid she would pass out. But there was more. “He . . . he . . . He had a gun?” she tilted her gaze up so she could see the man’s face.
“Yeah, he did,” the man agreed.
Trying to make her sluggish mind remember, she asked, “He’s dead, though?”
“He’s dead,” the man assured her.
The affirmation had her sinking back down against his hard chest. He was so warm, and she was so cold. When he lifted a hand, and began to smooth her hair again, she felt a rush of contentment flood through her. The man was handsome—his eyes were a lovely warm light brown, his hair was dark brown, and he wore it a little long, so it hung just above his eyes. There was something about him that soothed her. She knew that was strange—and stupid—she didn’t even know his name. At least she thought she didn’t. But maybe he’d told her already and she’d just forgotten.
“Clara? Do you think you can tell me what happened to you?”
“Wh . . . what’s your name?” she asked without lifting her head. She was so tired.
“Jonathon. Detective Jonathon Dawson. Clara, what happened?”
She shuddered and shook her head, burrowing her face into the detective’s sweater. She didn’t want to think about what had happened. She felt numb all over, heavy too, and stuck, like when you're unable to move in a dream.
Jostling her a little, Jonathon said, “Clara, I need you to tell me.”
She liked the way her name sounded coming from his lips.
“Clara, I need you to tell me,” he repeated patiently when she didn’t speak.
Jonathon clearly wasn't going to give up. Maybe she should just tell him, then he’d leave her alone, and she could close her eyes and sleep. “He was waiting for me.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Work.”
“What do you do?”
“‘Do’?” she repeated. She felt stunned, just concentrating for a few moments was a struggle.
Taking hold of her shoulders, Jonathon sat her up. “Where do you work?” he repeated.
“Work?” she echoed.
“Clara.” He shook her, the movement sending her head snapping back, which made her neck sting sharply, but it also cleared away a few of the cobwebs. “I know it’s hard, but try to focus. Where do you work?”
“I own a business. A bookstore.” She tried hard to do as he asked and focus.
He gave her an encouraging smile. “Where do you park your car?”
“There’s a parking lot around back.”
“Do you always park there?”
She nodded; her head was starting to feel heavy, and she wanted more than anything to rest it back down on Jonathon’s shoulder.
“Was anyone else around when you went to your car?” the detective continued with his relentless questions.
“Just him.”
“Was he waiting for you in your car, or outside it?”
Clara paused, unsure. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” Jonathon contradicted firmly. “Think. Did you see him as you walked to your car or did he surprise you once you got in?”
Closing her eyes, she tried to think. “Inside the car,” she said at last. “He . . . He had a . . . a knife.” Her teeth were beginning to chatter, and she knew it wasn't from the cold. “He cut me.” She said it like she couldn’t believe it. She didn’t believe it, didn’t believe any of what had happened this afternoon.