She said no, thanked him, kissed them all, and left. Lucy’s head was pounding. Coop took her hand, helped her into Gloria’s passenger seat. She slept during the entire drive back to Coop’s condo in Wesley Heights.
CHAPTER 52
Savich tossed the kid-size Redskins football to Sean from the living-room doorway across the entry hall as he ran toward the front door. He caught the ball with both hands, then pulled it close to his chest, just as Savich had taught him.
“Way to go, champ.”
Savich had moved the small entry table to the dining room, so there wasn’t much left to destroy. It was dark outside, and it was, after all, football season, so what were he and Sean to do? He laughed at Astro, who saw his job as getting the football away from Sean if Savich wouldn’t give it to him. He was leaping up, trying to grab it with his teeth.
Sherlock said, her voice low, since Sean seemed to be all ears since his fifth birthday, “Ann Marie Slatter is saying when Kirsten heard those two men mocking Bruce Comafield’s death, she just pulled her gun out of her jacket and shot them right there in the diner.”
Savich said after he tossed another football to Sean, “There’s something she didn’t do that I’ll admit surprises me—”
“She didn’t murder Ann Marie, and Kirsten knew she’d talk to the cops as soon as she got herself together again.”
“Exactly.” He caught Sean’s wobbly pass and tossed it back. Sean dropped it, probably on purpose, and Astro went nuts, trying to kill it, barking his head off. Soon the two of them were rolling around on the floor, fighting for the ball.
Sherlock said, “Do you think it’s possible Kirsten left Ann Marie Slatter alive to send us a message? Felt like thumbing her nose at us?”
“I don’t know,” he said, but he was thinking,
A half hour later, with Sean finally down for the count, Sherlock took her final drink of the tepid tea Dillon had made especially for her—spiked with his favorite supplements—and ate the rest of her chicken noodle soup. She felt fine, really, only a bit of rawness in her throat where some sadist had shoved down the tube. It made her shudder to think about it.
She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. What would Kirsten do now? She was worried for Dillon, because Kirsten had undoubtedly seen him on TV, maybe even saw him shoot Comafield outside the Texas Range Bar & Grill in Baltimore, and she was crazy enough to go after him. The thought scared her spitless.
But she slept deeply that night, her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around his chest.
CHAPTER 53
She finally got up, stiff and hurting, and went into the bathroom to pop some aspirin and move around a little. After she’d taken three aspirin, she managed a few stretches from side to side until she felt a zing of pain in her shoulder and had to stop. She stood straight again and, unfortunately, happened to look in the mirror. She saw a woman with ratty hair, her skin the color of oatmeal, with a big purple bruise on her jaw. Where had that beauty come from?
Lucy hadn’t unbraided her hair before she’d fallen into bed. She did so now, and finger-combed her hair, not bothering to get her brush from the small overnight bag she’d quickly packed at her grandmother’s house. At least the butterfly strips Coop had pressed down over the cut on her scalp looked better than the bandage she’d worn home from the hospital. Her eyes kept going back to the bruise on her jaw.
Of all things, she’d forgotten a sleep shirt, and so she was wearing one of Coop’s white Tshirts. She’d never before worn a man’s T-shirt, and thought she looked rather cute, at least from the neck down.
She said to the pasty-faced pathetic woman staring back at her, her eyes stark and hard, “You’re alive, so no more whining. At least you look kind of sexy in Coop’s T-shirt.”
“I’d say you do. I like the way it falls off your shoulder.”
She turned slowly to see her host standing in the open bathroom doorway, shirtless, wearing only a pair of slacks, zipped up, the top button unfastened. How could she see all that in a millisecond? She’d never seen Special Agent Cooper McKnight without a shirt before, not even at the gym. He had a nice chest, really nice abs and pecs, and that open top button on his pants—
He absently scratched his chest. “I heard you moving around. You in any pain, Lucy?”
“I took some aspirin; it’ll kick in soon. Look at this bruise on my jaw. Was it there before?”
He walked to her, lightly cupped her jaw in his hand, and lifted her face to the direct light. But he didn’t look at the bruise, he looked at her, and he knew immediately it wasn’t a good idea.
Who cared?
He leaned down and kissed her.
Lucy forgot about her bruises, forgot about the pain in her head, forgot about every sore muscle. They’d been circling each other for months now, despite what she’d heard about him, despite her distrust of him, and, to be honest with herself, she’d thought about this kiss for a long time. It wasn’t the right time to come in for a landing, but here they were in the guest bathroom, of all places.
Who cared?
She was here and he was here, kissing her with lovely enthusiasm, and she had her arms around his back, her hands stroking him, learning how he felt, and she discovered he felt quite wonderful.
Not a single red alert flashed in her mind. When he tried to pull back, she held on tight, kissed his chin, his nose, his neck, and went back to work on his mouth, hers open now, and so was his, and she poured herself into this awesome madness.
“I’ll let you have your T-shirt back.”
Where had the words come from? Surely from her own mouth, but wasn’t her mouth in very close contact with his?
