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“No visitors. I’ll tell them myself. Doctor’s orders. Best thing for you now is rest.” He switched out the light above her bed. “This may not be the suitable time to say it, but I’m a fan.”
“Thank you.”
“I caught your interview with The Major. It was outstanding.”
“Thank you.”
He patted her knee, said, “See you tomorrow,” and left.
She settled into a more comfortable position. She closed her eyes. But rather than finding comfort in the grogginess that had protected her earlier, panic overcame her with tsunami force.
She was back in the powder room, only a door between her and certain death. Powerless to move. The walls and ceiling closing in. Heartbeats loud against her eardrums.
Recognizing the panic for what it was, she covered her nose and mouth with her hands and willed herself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. The concentrated breathing staved off hyperventilation. The resultant tingling in her hands and feet subsided.
But her heart continued to race. Her skin broke a terror-induced sweat.
She relived squeezing through the window and the blinding pain when her shoulder hit the ground. She felt the rush of bitter wind as she ran headlong into the dark chased by gun blasts, striking close. She felt again the earth giving way beneath her.
The falling sensation was so real it made her clutch at the sheet, clawing up handfuls of it in an attempt to stop her plummet. But she kept falling and landed hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
Gasping, her eyes popped open.
Trapper was standing at the side of the bed.
Her throat seized up so completely she couldn’t make a sound. Not a peep. Not a scream. She wet her lips, or tried. Her mouth and tongue were dry and her breaths were coming hard and fast.
He picked up the lidded plastic cup of water that had been left for her on the nightstand, held it close to her mouth, and pressed the bendable straw between her lips.
She sipped, then again, then continued to. They didn’t break eye contact until the cup was empty and he returned it to the nightstand.
“Thank you.” Her voice was raspy in spite of the water.
“You’re welcome.”
“Where’s the sheriff?”
“On his way home to catch a few hours’ sleep.”
“Did he send you back here?”
“No.”
“Does he kn
ow you came back?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
“Coming from somebody who interviews people on TV, that’s a dumb question.”
He was a large, looming, rough-looking, rude presence, but not wholly unwelcome. With him here, who or what could harm her?
She had thought never to see him again. When she had allowed herself to fantasize about an occasion when they came eye to eye for the first time after that kiss, the setting was either rose-scented, rose-colored, and romantic, like a picnic beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, raining pink petals over them. Or the scene was hot and torrid and untamed, twisted bedsheets, naked skin, and sweaty sex.
Never would she have fantasized a tragic circumstance such as this.
