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At least, I thought I’d done a pretty good job.
He seemed content. Apologetic. Understanding.
But Bishop’s words continued to rattle around in my brain, reminding me of the wolf in sheep’s clothing and just how dangerous and lethal this man actually was.
Maybe that was why I was sweating so profusely.
Or it could be because I’d been dancing for the past twenty minutes.
A simple sign that read bathroom above an arrow caught my eye, and I began to shuffle toward them while trying to catch Bishop’s eye.
Now that Frank Martelli was nowhere near me, his entire demeanor had shifted. He’d relaxed a little, evidenced by the fact he was sitting at a table and no longer standing, still engaged in what looked like an in-depth conversation, all three men using their hands dramatically like they were boxing when they took turns to speak.
He was fine.
I was fine.
So I quickly ducked into the bathroom just outside the large ballroom. I wasn’t expecting to find a handful of stalls when I walked in and briefly wondered how someone had this kind of setup in their home. Then I remembered they also had an eight-hole golf course as part of their garden and a swimming pool with two water slides.
I walked straight across to the paper towel dispenser, yanking four or five out and using them to wipe under my arms and between my thighs, where I’d completely panic-sweated like crazy. Tossing them in the trash, I grabbed another couple before returning to the sink and wetting them. I dabbed those around the back of my neck, letting out a relieved sigh as the cold liquid cooled my burning skin.
Not only was it hot in that ballroom, but I was also attempting to lie my way through the night. You couldn’t tell me that no one would notice sweat patches on this beautiful silk dress and not be a little suspicious about why so much liquid was pouring out of me.
Tossing those in the trash, I was ready to head for the door, but as I reached for the handle, a soft groan came from one of the stalls behind me.
And it wasn’t just an ouch-my-stomach-hurts kind of groan.
It was the I’m-in-a-lot-of-pain type.
I swallowed hard, telling myself to walk the hell out. That it was none of my damn business, but that would be a lie. Because I took an oath to help people, and walking away went against everything I believed in.
“Dammit,” I cursed softly under my breath as I backed up, giving each stall door a soft push until I found the one that wasn’t empty. “Oh my goodness, are you okay?” I exclaimed, falling to my knees beside a young girl hugging the toilet.
She wore a tight, black cocktail dress, and because of the way she was sitting, I could see the deep, dark bruises that the dress would probably cover while she was standing. They looked like hand prints, some of them almost black.
I crouched down in front of her, pinching her chin to get her to look at me. “It’s okay, my name’s Shay. I’m a nurse.”
Her eyes were bloodshot, and it was like she was looking straight through me, with no sense of what the hell was going on.
Drugs.
“How did you get here?” I questioned, scanning the rest of her body for injuries. “I’m going to go and get help.”
“No!” she protested, her body suddenly a little more alive as she floundered for a moment, trying to get some grip on the toilet and force her feet underneath her. “No, I’m okay. I’m… I’ll…”
I stood and held out my hand.
She held back at first, eyeing it like it might be poisoned or something, but then sense kicked in, and she knew she’d never be able to get up without a little help.
I pulled her to her feet and helped her stumble over to the large bathroom counter, sitting her on the edge. She was young, though her almost jet-black hair was curled and pinned in the beautiful updo that must have taken hours and cost hundreds.
The girl took a couple of long, deep breaths, somehow managing to find herself again. “Did you say your name was Shay?”
“I did…” I answered, stepping back.
“You helped Alice get out.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. Oh God. Not another girl.
