Two more EMTs ran from the apartment. A man was between them on the gurney. His hand fell limply, his fingers lax.
In that instant, everything stopped for Skye as she gazed at that hand.
It was the hand of the man who’d saved her from being raped when she was fifteen. That hand had struck out with vicious accuracy then, beating her attacker again and again.
That was the man who’d saved her from hell. He’d pulled her out of that terrible basement. Carried her. Held her close with that hand.
That was the hand of the man who’d proposed to her. His fingers had trembled when he’d slid the ring onto her finger. Weakness, when Trace was normally so strong.
Trace! They were loading him into the back of an ambulance, and she jumped inside with them.
One of the EMTs glanced up. “Lady, you can’t—”
“I’m his fiancé.” Oh, God, his chest. The blood. “Help him!”
The EMT jerked his head and went back to work. The siren screamed as the vehicle lurched forward.
Skye grabbed for Trace’s hand. She held it like the lifeline that it was. She hadn’t warned him fast enough. Reese had done this. The man they’d trusted.
Her hold tightened on him. “Come back to me,” Skye whispered because she could tell—she could feel—that Trace was slipping away. His face was too still. Too pale. The life and energy—all that was Trace—gone.
“Please,” she whispered while the EMTs hooked him up to machines and poked him with needles. “Don’t leave me, Trace. I don’t want to be without you.” She’d tried that. And she’d felt as if she were only living half a life during those years.
“Come back to me,” Skye said again.
But Trace didn’t answer her, and a cold chill covered her body.
Chapter Sixteen
Skye walked into the morgue. The police chief was at her side. Because of this case, because of who was involved, she’d warranted attention from the man in charge.
Maybe that was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t. Nothing could make her feel better. Nothing could make her feel then. Her wounds were bandaged. The doctors had wanted to give her pain medication. She’d refused. There was no need for the drugs because a wall of ice surrounded her, numbing her. Each breath was an effort, sawing out of her lungs.
“I don’t want to be here,” Skye said. Her voice was wooden. As cold as she felt.
“We just need the identification process completed, Ms. Sullivan,” he told her. His eyes and his face were sympathetic. Everyone kept looking at her that way. With sympathy. Pity.
She hated those stares.
The first body waited. She glanced down at it. Felt no emotion stir. Not even rage. She’d locked her emotions away. She had to lock them away, or else she’d go crazy.
I’m more like my mother than I thought.
Because she wanted to kill. Wanted to destroy everyone in her path.
Skye cleared her throat as she stared at the body. “That’s Anna Jean Hurley. She was working with Reese Stokes. I believe they killed Ben Sharpe, Parker Jacobs, and Sara Kramer.”
“You believe?”
“Yes. Anna Jean told me they did, so I believed the bitch.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
Skye glared at the body. For a minute there, rage had cracked through her surface. She couldn’t have that. Because her pain was hidden just behind the rage.
Her gaze slid to the next slab. To the body that was waiting for her. Her lips trembled. Her hands clenched tightly into fists, and her nails bit into her palms.
“That’s Reese Stokes.” And he was missing part of his head.
The chief’s shoulder brushed against hers. “Most people can’t handle seeing a dead body, not one like this.”
“Most people probably don’t stare at the dead and wish that they’d been the one to do the killing.” She looked up at him. “I do.”
His eyes widened.
“Reese was Anna Jean’s partner. I don’t know why. Maybe because he was a psychotic jerk. Maybe because he fell for the wrong woman, and she warped his mind.” Her gaze slid back to Reese. “I thought of him as family, and I hope the bastard is burning now.”
She stepped back. “Now I need to get back to Trace.” She’d been away from him too long already. Skye skirted around the police chief.
“I’m…very sorry, ma’am,” he called.
Her fingers hesitated above the door.
“The doctors briefed me on Weston’s injuries. I understand that he…he—”
Her spine snapped straight. “You don’t know anything about Trace Weston. Neither do they. But I know plenty.” She faced him. “He’s the strongest man I know. And he’s a man who keeps his promises. Trace isn’t going to leave me. He’s going to wake up. He’s going to open his eyes any time.” That was why she had to be there. “And he’s going to make a full recovery.”
The pity flashed in his eyes again. She hated that pity. She wouldn’t look at it anymore. She left the chief, hurrying from the room and running back to the only man who mattered to her.
***