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4:32 P.M.
Someone was cradling her gently. Their hand was stroking her hair, and they were murmuring soothingly in her ear.
Knowledge of where she was and what had happened eluded her.
All she knew was that something was wrong with her.
She felt odd.
The voice whispering in her ear was calming, and the body she rested against was warm. Clara snuggled closer, seeking reassurance. Her body was shaking, she couldn’t stop it, and her throat ached horribly. She lifted a hand to her neck to try to find out why, but someone grasped it.
“Just rest, Clara,” the words rumbled in the chest she was slumped against. “The paramedics will be here soon; they’ll stitch your neck and give you some painkillers.”
Stitch her neck? Was it cut? Is that why it hurt?
Panic sliced through her, and she opened her eyes, trying to push herself into an upright position, but hampered by the fact that her arms were tucked inside a buttoned coat. Why didn’t she remember someone cutting her neck? What was wrong with her?
Seemingly reading her mind, the man who held her spoke softly, “You're in shock, Clara. The paramedics will be able to help you with that, too.”
In shock?
A stab of pain in her neck made her moan, but it also jolted her memory. The man in her car had held a knife to her throat. Sliced the tip of the blade through her skin. So much blood had flowed out that she’d been afraid she would pass out. But there was more. “He . . . he . . . He had a gun?” she tilted her gaze up so she could see the man’s face.
“Yeah, he did,” the man agreed.
Trying to make her sluggish mind remember, she asked, “He’s dead, though?”
“He’s dead,” the man assured her.
The affirmation had her sinking back down against his hard chest. He was so warm, and she was so cold. When he lifted a hand, and began to smooth her hair again, she felt a rush of contentment flood through her. The man was handsome—his eyes were a lovely warm light brown, his hair was dark brown, and he wore it a little long, so it hung just above his eyes. There was something about him that soothed her. She knew that was strange—and stupid—she didn’t even know his name. At least she thought she didn’t. But maybe he’d told her already and she’d just forgotten.
“Clara? Do you think you can tell me what happened to you?”
“Wh . . . what’s your name?” she asked without lifting her head. She was so tired.
“Jonathon. Detective Jonathon Dawson. Clara, what happened?”
She shuddered and shook her head, burrowing her face into the detective’s sweater. She didn’t want to think about what had happened. She felt numb all over, heavy too, and stuck, like when you're unable to move in a dream.
Jostling her a little, Jonathon said, “Clara, I need you to tell me.”
She liked the way her name sounded coming from his lips.
“Clara, I need you to tell me,” he repeated patiently when she didn’t speak.
Jonathon clearly wasn't going to give up. Maybe she should just tell him, then he’d leave her alone, and she could close her eyes and sleep. “He was waiting for me.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Work.”
“What do you do?”
“‘Do’?” she repeated. She felt stunned, just concentrating for a few moments was a struggle.
Taking hold of her shoulders, Jonathon sat her up. “Where do you work?” he repeated.
“Work?” she echoed.
