For Her Eyes Only. Sharon Sala

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СКАЧАТЬ chin quivered. “With my luck, that’s not necessarily a given.”

      Brenda ignored her remark and moved on to a different topic, waving the drooping flowers under her sister’s nose. “They’re a little wilted, but you must remember it’s the thought that counts. The power is still off, and Marcel’s Bouquet was letting everything go at half price.”

      In spite of her misery, Jessica had to grin. Leave it up to Brenda to find a bargain in a blackout. She brushed her fingertips across limp lavender petals.

      “They’re very pretty, but I don’t have anything to put them in.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” Brenda said. “Grand Springs is on water rationing until the blackout is over.”

      Jessica snorted softly. “It’s been raining for days and we’re now short of drinking water?”

      Brenda laughed and waved her hand above her head with a flirty flip. “You know the old saying, ‘Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.’”

      Jessica closed her eyes as a fresh wave of pain rolled up her back to the top of her head.

      Brenda’s lighthearted expression faded as she stared at the stark white bandage on her little sister’s head. She set the wilting flowers aside and brushed a hand lightly across Jessica’s forehead.

      “What happened, sweetie? About an hour ago I got a call from someone telling me you’d had an accident. When I found out you’ve been here since last night, I started to pitch a fit. But I suppose with all that’s been going on, we’re lucky they called at all.”

      Brenda’s sympathy was too much to handle. Tears trickled from the corner of Jessica’s eyes as Brenda patted at her arm.

      “I fell in my office. Against the file cabinet, I think.”

      Brenda glanced at Jessica’s head again and winced. “Poor dear.”

      Jessica had the distinct impression that Brenda’s concern was more for her missing hair than the wound she’d suffered.

      “Oh, did you hear the news about Olivia Stuart?” Brenda said, suddenly changing the subject.

      The room started to turn, and Jessica was thrust into the past with a swiftness she wouldn’t have believed. She was only vaguely aware of her sister’s voice droning on somewhere in the background, as her attention had become focused on an entirely different scene.

      Rationally, she knew she was in the hospital, but her mind seemed removed from her body. The room went dark, and, unable to fight the overwhelming sense of being out of control, once again she found herself witnessing Olivia Stuart’s attack. And then the image disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving Jessica weak and shaking and gasping for air.

      Concerned for Jessica’s sudden pallor, Brenda grabbed her sister’s hand. “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”

      Jessica closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart. “No, whatever it was is gone.”

      “Still,” Brenda muttered, “I think I should let them know that you’re not quite up to par.”

      Jessica tried not to glare and wondered what it would be like to be beautiful and dense, then decided it wouldn’t be a good trade-off. She liked being able to balance a checkbook, as well as a job and a life. She rolled her eyes at Brenda’s inane remark.

      “Of course I’m not up to par. I have stitches where my hair used to be.”

      Brenda’s laugh tinkled like crystal chimes in a gentle breeze. Jessica snorted softly in response and both sisters smiled at each other. There was some truth in the old saying that blood was thicker than water.

      * * *

      Stone Richardson walked into the precinct, his steps dragging, his expression lined with fatigue. He’d slept in his car in fits and snatches, and dried blood stained the toes of his boots, remnants of the time he’d spent in ER last night.

      Erik Chang, an officer on the force and one of Stone’s friends, looked up as Stone walked in.

      “Your ex-wife called, and the chief’s waiting to see you,” he said.

      Stone’s eyebrows rose, and he thrust a hand through his hair, spiking the short, thick strands. He hadn’t heard from Naomi in years. Why now? he wondered.

      “Well, they’re both going to have to wait,” he muttered, and reached across his desk for the coffee cup on the other side of a stack of files.

      “There’s no coffee,” Chang said.

      On his way to the break room, Stone stopped, then pivoted. The frown between his eyebrows deepened as Chang added, “Because there’s no power, remember?”

      Stone’s expletive was brief and to the point. He glanced down at the half inch of yesterday’s coffee coating the bottom of his cup, considered his jangled nerves and tossed it back like a dose of bad medicine.

      Chang shuddered and looked away so that no one would see him gag. For a cop, he had a remarkably weak stomach.

      Stone dropped his jacket on the back of his chair as he headed for Frank Sanderson’s office. He knocked once, then went in without waiting for an invitation.

      The chief looked up, took one look at the drawn expression on his detective’s face, as well as his blood-splattered clothing, and frowned.

      “Were you hurt?”

      Stone looked down, only now realizing how he must look. “No, it’s someone else’s blood.”

      “Then, go home and get some sleep. Come back when you can think straight.”

      Stone’s right eyebrow arched. “Why, mother, I didn’t know you cared.”

      “Shut the hell up and do what I said,” Sanderson ordered. “This blackout isn’t over yet.”

      Stone’s attitude shifted. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “But it was one hellacious night.”

      Aware that his men had worked without routines or orders, filling in where they were needed most, Sanderson asked, “Where were you?”

      “Vanderbilt Memorial.”

      Sanderson thought of Olivia Stuart. She’d died there last night. God knows how many others had followed her exit. Glancing at the blood splatters on Stone’s shirt, he repeated himself. “Do what I said.”

      Stone’s shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. “Yes, sir.”

      He shut the door quietly behind him and picked up his jacket on the way out of the precinct. His stomach growled—more from hunger than the cold, stale coffee he’d tossed down moments earlier. And he kept remembering the blood in Jessica Hanson’s hair and then, later, the lost, frightened expression on her face as they’d wheeled her away. He wanted—no—needed to know if she was all right. And as soon as he got a couple of hours’ sleep he would go back to the hospital and see for himself.

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