More Bitter Than Death: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,110
Are you hurt?”
“What? No. No, I don’t think so.” But even as I spoke, I reached up and felt my sore cheek. It burned, and I knew from experience that there was an abrasion on top of what would be a pretty good bruise, if I didn’t ice it up in a hurry. “I’m fine.”
Her face froze as she realized…“But you…you’ve been hit! Omigod, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” I looked at the concern and fear in her face, creased and puffy with sleep, and realized that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. No normal person would make that answer. “I was hit, yes, but I get hit worse than this all the time when I’m working out. I box.” It seemed simpler than trying to explain Krav to her, and I didn’t want to be out here all night. “And he was wearing gloves, so it could have been a lot worse.”
Even as I said it, I knew it was a fact. My attacker was dressed for inside, except he was wearing thin gloves. They didn’t feel like leather, they weren’t knitted wool, they reminded me of the sort of gloves that some weight lifters use to keep a good grip. Driving gloves, maybe, I decided.
“I’m going to call the front desk and the police,” the woman finally said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll stop down there now and tell them what happened.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m going to call them myself.”
I could read it in her face: Maybe I was the one responsible for all this. Maybe I had brought this all on myself. Maybe I was the dangerous one.
I nodded. “You’re right, maybe they’ll be able to catch him if you call. But they’ll find me down at the desk. Thanks for your help.”
She paused at her doorway, still viewing me with suspicion.
I stepped forward, very calmly. “I mean it. Thank you for coming out and seeing what was wrong when I screamed. Not everyone would do that.”
She blushed, and her face softened a little. “It’s okay. I’m sure other people called the desk too. I just happened to be closest, that’s all.”
“I’m Emma.” I stuck out my hand. It might be a little late for a formal introduction, but it was never too late to convince someone that I wasn’t a mental case.
“Becky Goldschmidt.” She shook my hand and then suddenly turned shy. “Well, I’d better…” She gestured to the inside of her room.
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
I looked down the hallway. People were moving back into their rooms, some were looking at me oddly, some were too drunk or sleepy to care. One person down the hall didn’t move, just stood there and stared at me.
Duncan.
He was shirtless and barefoot, and it looked like he was wearing—jeans? Blue pajama bottoms? He never wore the tops to his pajamas, I remembered suddenly. Why do I remember something like that, after all these years? Why that, and not more important things, like bibliographies and phone numbers, things I truly cared about?
I’d worn the tops a number of times, when we were together. Who’s wearing your pajama tops these days, Duncan?
Why on earth did that pop into my head?
Almost as if my question had called him, he started walking down the hallway toward me. I couldn’t very well flee back into my room, and besides, there was no need to, I told myself sternly. I’m on my way down to the desk to report the attack.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His concern looked genuine. More than that, he didn’t look as though he’d just attacked me. He was a little flushed, but that looked more like the color that follows eating and drinking than hard physical exertion. There were no marks on his face. And he’d been in the ballroom, when I got in there. I didn’t think he could have been one of the shooters in the woods, if that was the case.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have killed Garrison.
“I’m fine.” I finally registered jeans. And chest hair. Familiar and yet a million miles away. I was having a hard time keeping my thoughts on track.
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “Someone followed me into my room. I guess he came from the stairwell. He rushed me. I have no idea what it was about.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with Garrison, or you talking to the cops, or anything?” He crossed his arms across his chest, one eyebrow raised.