I flip on the light switch, and warm light illuminates the very reason she wasn’t answering. My blood runs cold while my heart is pounding at a rate that would likely set off alarms on a monitor.
Rushing forward, I fall to my knees beside Beckett’s unconscious body and lean forward to feel for a pulse. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slack.
“Is she dead?” the man behind me asks.
Please, God, no. Please let her be alive.
Breathing a sigh of relief when I feel the steady thumping of her pulse, I turn toward the door where the hotel employee is standing, wide-eyed, his face pale. “Call 9-1-1,” I order. “Now.”
“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, dropping the towels and yanking his cell phone out of his pocket.
With that handled, I turn my attention back to Beckett. Her lipstick is smeared, her hair a mess, but that could be from the fight. There’s a fresh bruise on her forehead, but her clothes are all still in place.
Even her boots are laced up.
“Get me a cold washcloth,” I order him as soon as he hangs up the phone. “Beckett?” I say her name loudly, cradling her face as I do. “Beckett.”
“Here.” The man offers me a wet washcloth, so I slip it behind her neck and hold it there, hoping the cold snap will wake her up.
Within seconds, those gorgeous brown eyes that captivated me from the moment we met flutter open, and she stares up at me, confused.
“Shawn?” Her voice is gravelly, and she winces in pain.
“Go downstairs and wait for the paramedics,” I tell the employee.
“On it.” He turns and rushes out of the room, the door slamming behind him.
“I’m going to get you up, okay?” I say gently as I move the rest of her tangled hair from her face.
She nods and starts to sit up. I guide her slowly, not wanting to move too fast. Then, I reach down and lift her into my arms and carry her over toward the bed. As I sit her on the edge, I kneel in front of her.
“Do you remember what happened?”
She swallows hard. “I came back, and someone was here.” Reaching up, she touches her throat. It’s covered by a turtleneck, so I can’t see much, but it’s clearly bothering her.
“Are you wearing something under your sweater?”
She nods, then reaches down to lift it over her head. I help, trying to keep her from moving too fast. When it’s tossed aside, I kneel again and brush the hair from her neck.
The moment I see the handprints branded into her skin—an ugly, dark red and splotchy—an unfamiliar level of rage burns hot and fast through me.
She was strangled.
I have to take a calming breath in order to formulate a rational thought.Focus, Sampson. She needs you focused.“Did you see who did this?”
Her body begins to tremble, and tears fill her eyes. “No. I didn’t. It was dark.”
“Come here.” I pull her against me and wrap my arms around her as she crumbles. Her shoulders shake, her entire body quivering while she realizes just how close she came to dying tonight.
The truth is: I’m shaken up, too.
Consumed with the idea that I came so close to losing what was never really mine.
That the world was nearly robbed of all she has to offer.
Thank You, God. Thank You for keeping her alive.
Had she fought? Had she screamed for help, and no one had come?
