Another officer moved past me to check the bald guy’s pulse. He’d been shot in the head. There was no pulse. “All clear!”
“Is there anyone else on the plane?” the one who held me at gunpoint asked.
“The pilot. He’s unconscious. And Nick. He’s dead. I’m not armed. I’m the one who was kidnapped.”
“London Shaw?”
“Yes.”
The officer lowered his weapon and called out to his colleagues. Armed officers moved past me and up onto the stairs to search the plane. Another approached me. “Are you injured?”
“London!” Murray drew my attention. He looked ready to kill the police officer who blocked his path to me. “That’s my wife!”
I’d never seen him so enraged.
“Please, I’m fine.” I batted away the police officer’s hand as she tried to check my pupils. “I want my husband.”
At that, she guided me away from the plane behind the line of police cars to where Murray was on the verge of being arrested. Seeing me approach, he stopped arguing, his eyes glistening with tears as they roamed over me.
I’d realize later that I not only had Nick’s blood on me, but my face was already swelling from where he’d hit me, and I still had the cut lip from the bald associate.God, the man had tried to kill me, and I didn’t even know his name, I thought distantly.
It was only as Murray wrapped me tightly in his arms and I inhaled the familiar scent of him that shock finally hit. I couldn’t stop shaking. When the ambulances arrived, they insisted I get in one. Murray jumped in with me, not letting go of my hand.
“Where’s Kelly?” I thought to ask as black dots clouded my vision.
“Safe. With Ramsay.”
“That’s good,” I whispered before unconsciousness claimed me.
52.London
Ifound my husband making coffee in the kitchen, listening to Birdy. Over the past few months living together, I’d begun to recognize a pattern to the music he listened to and his mood. It was eerily similar to my pattern of mood listening. Birdy was one of the artists we both listened to when we needed peace. And it usually meant we were worried about something.
We’d listened to a lot of Birdy, Bon Iver, and Lord Huron lately. All of our “in need of relaxation” artists.
It had been only two weeks since Nick tried to take me.
Every night since, I’d woken up from a nightmare, flushed with sweat and panic. I knew it was driving Murray crazy with concern.
As was Kelly’s current behavior.
Last night, I’d slept right through the night for once. I didn’t think it meant there would be no more nightmares, but I hoped that eventually I’d stop dreaming about it.
Murray glanced over as I approached the countertop where he stood. I slid an arm around his waist, cuddling into his side. His gaze washed over my face, and he reached up one handed to swipe his thumb over my cheek. “The bruising looks better.”
“It feels a lot better.”
“No nightmares last night.”
It wasn’t a statement.
“You need to sleep.” I smoothed a hand over his stomach, worried about him too. “We’re all okay. We’re safe. You can’t stay awake, vigilant, waiting for me to have a nightmare.”
His expression was pained, but he nodded. “I know.”
The truth was the nightmares weren’t from fear of this ever happening again. Nick was dead. And I was relieved. I had a lot of guilt as well as a search for inner peace tied up in those nightmares. What kind of person was relieved they’d killed their ex-boyfriend?
I couldn’t think about it without feeling sick. Murray knew all this. I’d confessed it to him a few nights ago. He tried to tell me that how I felt was normal, but it still haunted me. Myreliefhaunted me.
