“He cut you, but you're okay, Clara; you're safe here.”
His firm but gentle tone gave her something to hold on to. She clutched at it desperately, tried to use it to still her trembling body and clear her foggy mind.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He told me to drive. He kept telling me to drive faster. He wouldn’t let me stop. I saw the lights, heard the sirens, and I begged him to let me pull over but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.” The last was a sob as tears came in a sudden rush, catching her by surprise. Clara would have been embarrassed if she had enough energy left. Jonathon’s arms came around her, and he resumed stroking her hair. Voices bumbled above her like buzzing bees. She didn’t bother to attempt to decipher them; her overwhelmed mind was seeking the blissfulness of sleep.
“Clara, the paramedics are here,” Jonathon announced as he slid sideways and climbed out of the car.
As the cold air hit her, the shaking intensified. She was starting to feel a little light-headed, and the world swirled around her in a very disconcerting manner. She was carried to an ambulance, set down on a gurney, and quickly covered in blankets. Clara protested with a muted moan when Jonathon went to move away from her. For some reason, he made her feel safe and she didn’t want him to leave.
“It’s okay, Clara. I can ride with you to the hospital if you like,” he soothed.
At the word hospital, she snapped out of her shock-induced daze. She was not going to the hospital. No way, no how. “I don’t need a hospital,” she said, trying to make her voice sound strong.
“You're in shock,” Jonathon reminded her, his brow creasing in a small frown. “You need to be checked out.”
“The paramedics can do that here,” she countered.
“Your neck needs to be stitched,” Jonathon argued.
“They can do that here,” she repeated. The topic wasn't up for discussion. She simply wasn't going to go to a hospital.
“Clara,” Jonathon’s tone now sounded like he was dealing with a recalcitrant child. “You need medical attention; you probably need to be observed overnight …”
“I’m okay; I’m feeling much better.” To the paramedics, she asked, “Can you stitch the cut for me here?”
One of the paramedics looked curiously from her to Jonathon, probably wondering if there was something between them, given the intimacy their argument implied. “Yes, we can, but it’d be better to get it done at the hospital, get yourself checked out thoroughly.”
She forced her lips to curve into a small smile. “Thank you, but I really am okay. If you could just stitch the cut, then I’ll be on my way.” It occurred to her that she had no way of getting home. Her car was almost definitely evidence, and her purse had been in it. She’d have to ask Jonathon to retrieve it for her, and once he did, she would have her phone to call a cab and money to pay for it.
Shrugging, the paramedic retrieved some supplies and perched beside her. At the sight of the needle he produced, Clara’s courage waned. She hated needles even more than she hated hospitals. A terrified little moan slipped from her lips.
“Here.” Jonathon was suddenly beside her, holding out his hand. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”
Clara hesitated for a moment. This man made her feel safe, but she didn’t know anything about him other than his name and occupation. She’d felt a sudden attraction to him when she’d opened her eyes to find him looming over her. The physical attraction had been reinforced by how kind and gentle he’d been with her. But they didn’t know each other, and after today she’d probably never see him again. Getting attached was probably not the smartest of ideas. However, as the paramedic swiped her neck with an alcohol swab and pierced the skin with the needle, she grabbed Jonathon’s hand and did indeed squeeze as hard as she could.
“Local anesthetic should have it numb in a moment,” the medic informed her.
Scrunching her eyes closed, Clara tried to pretend she was anywhere but here.
“What are your favorite books?” Jonathon’s voice asked, close to her ear.
She opened her eyes to stare blankly at him. Books? Why was he asking her about books?
“You said you own a bookshop, I’m guessing because you love to read. What are your favorite books?”
Allowing him to distract her, she could afford to lean on him just a little longer. “I like romances,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment to be talking about romance with a guy she found herself attracted to.
Jonathon simply smiled at her and asked, “Have you always wanted to own a bookshop?”
Flinching as the medic started to stitch her wound, then coherent thought flew from her mind. Surely the cut wasn't so bad it needed stitches, and it would heal on its own—maybe she should just leave now and go straight home.
“Clara, look at me,” Jonathon ordered gently.
Reluctantly, she complied. His face was close to hers; his warm breath brushed her cold cheeks. His eyes were calm and seemed to ooze comfort and control. She let both wash over her and her thumping heart slowed a little.
“Did you always want to own a bookshop?”
She wondered whether he was tired of having to repeat things to her. He didn’t appear to be, but surely he must be growing weary of it by now. “Yes.” She tried to keep her focus on Jonathon and not on the paramedic and his horrible needle. “I’ve loved books since I was a very little girl.” As a child, books had been her salvation; if she hadn’t had them, she didn’t know what would have happened to her.
“I love books, too.” Jonathon smiled again.
She liked his smile. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear it. Everything was getting kind of blurry, and the sensation that she was floating had returned. She’d been doing okay, holding it together, and now suddenly she was quickly losing control. Her overwhelmed mind seemed to have reached its limit, and now it was ready to crash.
Above her, Jonathon’s forehead furrowed in concern. “Clara, stay with me.”
The words sounded faraway, as though there were miles between them instead of inches.
Jonathon’s gaze shifted to the paramedic. “She’s going to faint.”
He was right; she was going to faint.
And she did.
* * * * *
6:58 P.M.
“So you know who he is, right?”
Jonathon glanced up at his partner as she sat down at her desk. Allina Bennett looked less like a cop than any other police officer he’d ever met. They’d been partners for almost a year now, and he was embarrassed to admit that at first, he’d had some doubts about being paired up with her. Allina was in her mid-thirties but looked at least ten years younger—she was barely five-foot-one, with big blue eyes, curly blonde hair, and freckles. Despite her small stature and appearance, Allina was probably the toughest woman he’d ever met.
“Jon?” Allina prodded. She was the only person who called him by that nickname; everyone else used his full name.
“Yeah, I know who he is,” he replied. When they’d done a background check on the carjacker, Thomas Karl, they had learned all about his past.