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Hunter stared at Dominic, whose skin was ashen after his blood had drained from his body—coating his hair in its sticky death.
A June breeze floated through the air, birds happily singing their melodies, a stark contrast to the clicking of a crime scene camera, documenting the brutality of death.
I had studied crime scene photos before, but there was something different when a man was murdered right in front of you, his blood all over your skin. Something different when the victim was your friend. Something different about pressing your hands to his wound, desperately trying to stop him from dying.
Only to fail.
Hunter’s eyes, with laser-sharp intensity, locked on to mine, then trailed down, taking in every blood-smeared detail. I could only imagine what I looked like. Dominic’s blood coated parts of my suit, and my right hand was bandaged with gauze, thanks to my pathetic excuse of a weapon.
“You okay?” Shattering the haunting silence, his soft voice was like the calm after a storm, a welcome relief to the ice-cold terror that had gripped me moments ago.
I dared to meet his gaze again, finding refuge in the depths of his warm eyes that reminded me of an ocean wave just before it broke over the sand.
“I’m okay,” I managed, trying to convince myself more than him.
His steady stare continued to hold mine, before he seemed to reexamine the blood covering me in more scrutiny. Glaring at my gauzed hand.
“You’re bleeding.” Notes of anger mingled with concern in his tone.
Among the crimson smeared throughout my body, his eyes pinpointed the one anomaly, the one discrepancy that was my own blood amid the chaos.
“Luna,” he said in a tender murmur. “How badly are you hurt?”
I blinked. “Just my palm.” My voice came out in a monotone. “The EMTs are going to take me to the ER to get stitched up when I’m done giving my statement.”
Hunter’s chest inflated, and his attention shifted to the detective standing next to me.
“Should I be worried the Vigilante might come after me, too?” I asked her.
Hunter looked from me to the detective.
“How tall would you say the Vigilante was?” the detective asked.
I blinked hard, willing the fog clouding my mind to lift, forcing the memories to sharpen against the haze of trauma. My gaze slid over Hunter, trying to superimpose the looming figure of the Vigilante over his frame, gauging the differences inch by inch.
“He was about three inches taller than Hunter and twenty pounds heavier. At least.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “The Vigilante wore skintight clothing. And his boots were, like, three or four sizes bigger than Hunter’s, too.”
Rinaldi wrote that in her notebook. “Good. This is good, Luna. You’re doing great. Hunter, you’re what, six foot one, two hundred twenty pounds?”
He nodded.
“Size eleven?”
“Ten,” he corrected.
“Okay, so we’ll go with six foot four, two forty. Size fourteen boot?”
“Yeah.” My surroundings blurred once more, each sound becoming distant, as the choking grip of shock tried to pull me under. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but eventually, Hunter’s hand on my shoulder snapped me out of my trance.
“You done with her?” he asked Rinaldi.
“For now. We’re going to transport her to the precinct to collect her clothes,” she said.
Which were now evidence.
