Blood.
Dried blood covers her shoulder.
I think back to Joel. I don’t remember him having any wound except for his tongue, where she bit him. And of course, the giant hole I put in his head.
I reach out to examine her shoulder, but Liesel pulls away, re-covering herself with the towel.
That’s why she has the towel: to hide her pain.
“Liesel, let me see your shoulder,” I say calmly and firmly. I won’t give her a choice in the matter. I need to see her injuries, but I won’t physically force her.
Her eyes tear into me, and once again, she looks ready to strike.
“Please,” I force my voice to soften.
She blinks rapidly, trying to find a way out of showing me her shoulder. Eventually, something she sees in my eyes forces her to let me.
She nods and relinquishes her hold on the towel, but doesn’t remove it herself.
I reach out, and she doesn’t pull away this time.
I grab the towel, preparing myself not to react to whatever I see.
When I lower the towel, I see the dried blood once again, and then I see the gaping hole blasted into the back of her shoulder.
A bullet hole.
In the back.
The fucking bastard shot her running away. He didn’t even have the decency to shoot her face to face.
“Shit,” I curse, grinding my teeth together.
Liesel’s hazel eyes water, but she doesn’t cry.
Once again, I failed her. I should have been here instead of searching for Siren. I should have known Joel was a bastard. I should have known she’d been shot.
And I shouldn’t be showing her any damn emotion, but there is no hiding how I feel.
I pull the rest of the towel from her back, examining every inch of her with my own eyes, but I only see the single bullet hole.
“Joel did this?”
Liesel nods.
“Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
Please, don’t tell me he raped you and I didn’t realize.
“No, you got here before he could do worse.”
I narrow my gaze; my heart roars in my chest full of a thousand exploding angry cannons. I didn’t get here in time. He should have never touched her. Never tied her up. Never shot her.
I regret killing the bastard now—he deserved worse than death.
“Hold this,” I say, handing Liesel the expensive bottle of scotch.
She leaves her bottle in the sand and takes mine in her arms, cradling it against her chest.