reached him and felt for a pulse, even though I knew I wouldn’t find one. Catching my breath, I shoved him over to perform CPR, trying to keep as low as possible. The second I began compressions, blood squirted from several holes in his chest and abdomen.
Scot was dead. There was no way to bring him back.
Safety. I had to get to safety and call for help. Swallowing down bile, I turned and crawled toward the window. If they were coming, I would need to stand and run. Holding my breath, I grasped the edge of the sill with my bloody hands and lifted enough to look down at the lake.
The beach was empty, and the lakefront clear. The boat had taken off.
My entire body shook. Wind blasted inside the broken windows, and more glass dropped. I dodged out of the way and dropped to my butt, surveying the destruction. Then I did a quick survey of my arms and legs. Everything hurt, but I couldn’t find any bullet holes.
Tears blurred my vision, and I wiped them away, a sense of urgency grabbing me by the throat. Unable to force myself to stand, I crawled toward the bullet-riddled front door and opened it, tracking blood onto the wide cement porch. There I dialed 911 and gave a report, my voice both shrill and shaking. The officer told me to stay put if the shooters were gone.
I couldn’t move, anyway. I leaned back against the closed door as the wind battered against me. The blood on my skin and clothes got stickier and my nausea stronger.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Instead of reassuring me, my anxiety pricked up again. My central nervous system misfired in a million directions as the adrenaline rush began to dissipate, leaving me cold and terrified—taken instantly back to that horrible few hours in my childhood. I gulped in air, trying to breathe. I’d survived that time, and I’d survive this one, too. Tears streamed down my face, but I let them fall. I was alive. That said something.
A persistent pain in my right ankle caught my attention, and I leaned to the side to see a bleeding and now familiar injury. A hysterical laugh coughed out of me, high pitched and odd—carried away by the wind.
Another bullet had burned me.
Chapter 8
Uniformed police officers arrived first, followed by Detective Pierce. Even though I was pretty sure he didn’t like me, I was relieved to see a friendly face. Okay. Make that a familiar face. He surveyed the scene and disappeared into the house for about thirty minutes. By the time he came to question me in the front of the house, I’d already talked to a uniformed officer, given a statement, and found a safe spot to sit on a swing at the far edge of the porch. Somebody had brought me a rough blue police blanket that smelled like wet dog, and I gratefully huddled inside it.
“Miss Albertini.” Pierce strode toward me and past the potted flowers that had somehow escaped the carnage, his world-weary eyes sharp. A pretty brunette lab tech did a double take at him and then quickly turned back to work. I guess he was handsome in a too intense fortyish year old way.
I swallowed, holding the blanket around my shivering body like a shield. Blood had dried on my hands and beneath my nails, although the lab tech had scraped beneath each one. Even so, I wanted to get into a shower so badly I itched. For the moment, I tried to put on what my Grandma Fiona would call a lady warrior’s expression. “Long time no see,” I said quietly.
He didn’t appreciate my humor if the tightening of his jaw provided any indication. He wore a darker brown but just as fitted suit as he had the day before. His tie this time was Christmas green instead of the gold stripe last time. “Do you require medical attention?”
The kind question caught me off guard. “No,” I whispered, huddling down. An officer had given me a Band-Aid for my ankle, and the bleeding had stopped.
Pierce’s gaze softened a fraction, even as he drew out his battered notebook. “All right. Tell me exactly what happened, and we’ll get you out of here.” He smelled like something deep and salty—the distant part of the ocean?
I’d already told the other officer, but I knew this was part of the process. Pierce no doubt needed to hear the timeline himself, and he’d also want to