Richard wrote furiously, intent on getting down every word. The woman should have been in JAG. She would have made a hell of a lawyer. When he finally finished, he absently shook a cramp out of his hand and looked up.
The hard-faced resolve was gone, replaced by one of those looks women did so well—a cross between a smirk and bored impatience—one of those why do I have to do all the thinking looks. “Do you have a cell phone, Officer Murdock?”
He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Yes.”
“Most of them have an app for that.”
“For what?”
“Notes, dictation, recording conversations. Or in your case, interviews. You don’t have to write it all down. Your phone can probably do it for you.”
He pulled out his cell, looked at it, then looked back at her. “Really?”
And there was the eye roll he’d half expected. “I’m tired, Murdock. I don’t want to talk any more. If you need verification of why we went to Farid’s, talk to Samira.”
A pause, then, “Samira’s dead. Her body was found last night.”
She made a sound—part cry, part moan. Then she did that vomiting thing again, and one of her machines started beeping, and nurses rushed into the room.
Which ended the interview.
* * *
KD didn’t want it, but they gave her a sedative and another dose of the pain meds. Once they kicked in, she was able to stop vomiting and finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. Five hours later, she awoke to see another liquid dinner on the rolling table thing by her bed, and Warrant Officer Murdock dozing in the chair.
His head was thrown back, his mouth sagging open. Long legs stretched past the end of the bed. His elbows rested on the armrests, hands clasped over his belt, and he was snoring. The picture of relaxation. She wanted to hit him. Wake him up and ask him why he’d told her about Samira in such an abrupt way.
But she had known, even before he had said the words. The regret had been in his face, the way his eyes had slid to the side just before he spoke. He didn’t like telling her any more than she liked hearing it.
Another death, another loss. Soldiers were supposed to accept losing friends and brothers. Casualties of war. Maybe she wasn’t such a good soldier after all. Maybe she should have stayed home in Texas, where her biggest problem would have been staying off Mama’s radar and figuring out what to do with her life that didn’t involve horses or cattle.
Had her family even been notified that she’d been shot? Were they wondering why she’d missed their weekly FaceTime call?
With a weary sigh, she studied the man in the chair.
Murdock wasn’t as old as she had originally thought. Early thirties, maybe. But she guessed in his job, he had heard enough lies and witnessed enough terrible things to prematurely age him and put that weary, cynical look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen him smile, and wondered if he found anything worth the effort. He might be a handsome man if he ever did. Another casualty of war—the capacity for joy. That’s what she had admired most about Nataleah—her ability to bring a smile to those around her, to make them feel a little less alone.
Irritated at where her thoughts were headed, KD reached out to pull the rolling table with her dinner tray closer and accidentally knocked the pink barf bowl off the nightstand. Luckily, it was clean. But it landed with a clatter that brought Murdock bolting upright in his chair.
“What?” he almost shouted, blinking and looking around. When he saw her leaning over the side of the bed and the bowl upended on the floor, he immediately rose. “Are you sick again? Should I call the nurse? I’ll call the nurse.”
“Don’t,” she blurted out before he’d gone two steps. “I’m okay. I accidentally knocked it off when I reached for my dinner tray.” And even that simple effort had been exhausting. Fearing another bout of lightheadedness, KD slumped back against the pillows. “I’m okay.”
He picked up the bowl and set it back on the nightstand, then positioned her rolling table closer so that it crossed her lap. He studied the items on the tray. “That’s all you get?”
Unwilling to go into an explanation of postsurgical bowel function, she simply said “For now,” and punched the button on her bed to raise the back so she could sit up. Which didn’t work as well as she’d hoped, since she’d slid down in her sleep so that the bend hit just below her shoulder blades. She tried to scoot up, then inhaled sharply when a jolt of pain ran through her.
“Here. Let me help.” And before she could stop him, Murdock grabbed her under the arms and bodily lifted her higher. His hands were so big, his thumbs reached past her collarbones. It hurt so much it stole her breath away, or she might have started shouting at him.
Once he’d pulled the covers up, he pushed the edge of the table into her chest and stood back, a pleased look on his stubbled face. “Better?”
“Much,” she gasped, terrified he might do something else to accidentally hurt her.
He started to open her various little juice and tea containers, but seeing he had a hard time with the tiny tabs on the seals and fearing those big hands would make a mess of it, she waved him away. “I can do that. Thanks anyway.”
“Okay.” He looked around for something else to do, spotted the pink plastic water pitcher on the nightstand, grabbed a cup, and started pouring. “Anything else?” he asked, only spilling a little of it as he put it on her tray.
“You’ve done more than enough.”
“Well. Okay, then. Feel up to a few more questions? I’d
