I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at her body, before I could make my brain work again. I picked up the phone by the bed and dialed. It rang several times before a man’s sleep-roughened voice answered.
“Ryker. Help me.”
* * *
I looked away from where the medical examiner and cops were removing Hanna’s body through the foyer and out the front door. Ryker sat beside me on the couch, his arm around my waist. I clutched a glass of iced bourbon in my hands. Ryker had taken one look at me, gone into the kitchen, and returned with the drink.
“How’d they get in?” I asked.
“Picked the lock,” he replied. “It’s a decent lock, but not great. They were professionals.”
I swallowed. “Why would they kill her? She was just a prostitute, working for them.”
Ryker looked at me. “You can’t possibly think they were here for her, do you?”
I stared blankly at him. “Why else would they come?”
“Sage, she looked enough like you to be your sister. She had on your pajamas, was in your apartment, asleep in your bed. I think it’s a safe bet to say they came here for you. Not Hanna.”
Shock rippled through me yet again. It hadn’t occurred to me, not even for a moment, that I’d been the target. Guilt followed close on the heels of realization.
“Oh my God,” I said, tears leaking from my eyes. “It’s my fault they killed her.” I raised a shaking hand to cover my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut. Hanna had come to me for help and had died for it. If she’d gone anywhere else tonight, she’d still be alive.
Ryker cursed. The ice clinked in the glass as he took it from my hand; then he was folding me in his arms.
“Shh. It’s not your fault, Sage,” he said.
“They killed her,” I sobbed. “And I didn’t do anything. I just let it happen. I could’ve helped her, but I didn’t.” Guilt rushed over me in thick waves.
“Shhh, calm down,” Ryker said. “You couldn’t have helped her. They’d have just killed you, too.” His arms were tight around me, one hand cradling the back of my head.
I pulled away slightly, sniffing back more tears. The guilt I felt was now more overwhelming than the fear had been. It was crippling in a way that was the same but different from the terror that had frozen me in place.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Taking my hand, he pulled me to my feet. My knees were shaking and threatened to give out, which made me glad Ryker still had a firm grip around my waist.
“Hey, Malone, I’m taking her home,” he said to his partner, who was standing nearby, watching us.
“You sure she shouldn’t go to the hospital?” Malone asked, skeptical.
“She’s okay, just in shock. And as of yet, they don’t know she’s not dead.”
The men shared a look I couldn’t interpret; then Ryker was taking me downstairs and outside, hustling me past the ambulance at the curb to a Ford pickup that looked like it was from the sixties—not that I was an expert.
There was a chill in the air and I shivered. I was still in my pajamas—a thin pair of cotton pants and matching camisole top. Navy blue with pink lace trim. They were my favorite, but now I was cold. I wrapped my arms around my middle.
Ryker saw the gesture and pulled his jacket from the cab of the truck. “Here. Wear this,” he said, swinging the leather over my shoulders. I pushed my arms into the too-long sleeves, then climbed into the cab. Ryker shut the door and rounded to the driver’s side. I took a deep breath, Ryker’s scent enveloping me as easily as the leather jacket had.
I tried fastening the seat belt, but my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t. Ryker’s hand closed gently over mine, removing the belt from my grip and fastening it himself.
I stared out the window as Ryker drove, willing myself not to blink, because every time I did, I saw Hanna’s eyes accusing me.
There wasn’t a lot of traffic at this hour so it didn’t take long to arrive at our destination. We pulled up to a house, which surprised me, as I’d assumed he’d live in an apartment. It was in an older neighborhood and was the kind of row houses they’d built thousands of back in the forties and fifties. Ryker helped me out of the