Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,42

twinkled in the pallid light. “But we’re in a drugstore.”

She got it immediately. “And drugstores sell batteries,” she said, her mouth turning up in a smile.

“Right.” He stood, shining the flashlight’s beam around.

“They’re usually close to the register, aren’t they?”

“Yep. Here we go.” He walked out of her sight and after a moment she heard paper tearing. When he came back and sat down, he handed the mini-flashlight to her. Then he tore more cardboard.

“What’s that?” she asked, shining the beam on what he held.

“A bigger flashlight.” He finished inserting the batteries, then turned it on.

Dani shielded her eyes. “Ow, too much. We’ve been in the dark too long.”

“Watch this.” He clicked a button and the intense brightness went away and a softer, more diffuse light replaced it. “And this.” Another click and the light turned red and bright again.

“A triple-duty flashlight. Nice,” she said as he switched it back to the soft light and set it on a shelf just beneath the counter. “Does it do any more tricks?”

“There’s a button that will make it flash. And I found this.” He held a tiny disc between his first finger and thumb. He pressed it.

“A laser beam. What are you going to do with that?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? It’s neat, though, isn’t it?”

She chuckled. “It is neat.” She flicked her light on and off, then stuck it into the pocket of her jeans.

“We should be all set,” he said. Then he put his light on the soft setting and pointed it at her face.

“Hey,” she protested, squinting.

“You’re kind of cute with your hair all wet and your raccoon eyes.”

She swiped a finger below her eyes. It came away smudged with black. Great. Her mascara was running and she didn’t have any makeup in her purse. Gun—yes. Makeup—no.

An odd little hiccup bubbled up from her throat, followed by another one and another. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying. Not exactly. She was laughing—kind of. She put her knuckles against her teeth. Was she becoming hysterical?

Harte frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She shook her head and tried to stop the laughter that was bubbling up from her chest, but she couldn’t. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I—can’t seem to—help it.”

“It’s okay,” he said softly, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close to his side.

She shivered at the warmth of his body.

“Now, what’s so funny?”

“When you called me raccoon eyes, my first thought was that I don’t have any makeup in my purse.” She could barely talk for the spasms of laughter.

Harte smiled. “Hard to believe, given the size of it.”

She sniffed.

“You know, people react in different ways. Just let it out.”

Her throat and chest quivered with the strange half laugh, half sob for a few more seconds. Then suddenly, it stopped. Dani hiccuped one more time. “That was weird,” she said.

Harte’s arm tightened around her shoulders, urging her to relax. She gave in and let herself sink into his side. She felt him put his lips against her hair, felt them move as he murmured gentle, comforting words. She couldn’t hear everything he said, but that was okay. It was his strength, his warmth, his closeness that mattered.

Her muscles, cold and tired, twitched shakily. Each time her arm or leg jerked, he laid his palm on the twitching limb and rubbed it.

In an odd way, it reminded her of when she was a child. Tears choked her throat again. She coughed. “When I was little, my granddad would rub my legs when I woke up crying with the leg-ache,” she said.

“You always lived with him after your dad died?”

She nodded. “My dad died when I was seven. So Granddad raised me.”

“Where was your mom?” Harte asked, his breath stirring her hair.

“Gone. Since I was three.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Dani shook her head, but when she opened her mouth to say, It was a long time ago, the words wouldn’t come out. A little sob erupted from her throat, and tears filled her eyes. “Damn it,” she muttered. “This is ridiculous. I never cry.”

“Hey,” Harte whispered, putting a finger under her chin and lifting her face to his. “Give yourself a break.”

“A break? It’s so stupid to cry. It doesn’t help anything.” She blotted her cheeks with her palms. “It’s humiliating.”

“I don’t know a handful of people who could have dealt with everything that’s happened as well as you have.” His mouth quirked upward. “And you pick a mean lock.”

“I do that,” she said, trying to smile. A sob, like