“Clara.” He shook her, the movement sending her head snapping back, which made her neck sting sharply, but it also cleared away a few of the cobwebs. “I know it’s hard, but try to focus. Where do you work?”
“I own a business. A bookstore.” She tried hard to do as he asked and focus.
He gave her an encouraging smile. “Where do you park your car?”
“There’s a parking lot around back.”
“Do you always park there?”
She nodded; her head was starting to feel heavy, and she wanted more than anything to rest it back down on Jonathon’s shoulder.
“Was anyone else around when you went to your car?” the detective continued with his relentless questions.
“Just him.”
“Was he waiting for you in your car, or outside it?”
Clara paused, unsure. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” Jonathon contradicted firmly. “Think. Did you see him as you walked to your car or did he surprise you once you got in?”
Closing her eyes, she tried to think. “Inside the car,” she said at last. “He . . . He had a . . . a knife.” Her teeth were beginning to chatter, and she knew it wasn't from the cold. “He cut me.” She said it like she couldn’t believe it. Shedidn’tbelieve it, didn’t believe any of what had happened this afternoon.
“He cut you, but you're okay, Clara; you're safe here.”
His firm but gentle tone gave her something to hold on to. She clutched at it desperately, tried to use it to still her trembling body and clear her foggy mind.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He told me to drive. He kept telling me to drive faster. He wouldn’t let me stop. I saw the lights, heard the sirens, and I begged him to let me pull over but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.” The last was a sob as tears came in a sudden rush, catching her by surprise. Clara would have been embarrassed if she had enough energy left. Jonathon’s arms came around her, and he resumed stroking her hair. Voices bumbled above her like buzzing bees. She didn’t bother to attempt to decipher them; her overwhelmed mind was seeking the blissfulness of sleep.
“Clara, the paramedics are here,” Jonathon announced as he slid sideways and climbed out of the car.
As the cold air hit her, the shaking intensified. She was starting to feel a little light-headed, and the world swirled around her in a very disconcerting manner. She was carried to an ambulance, set down on a gurney, and quickly covered in blankets. Clara protested with a muted moan when Jonathon went to move away from her. For some reason, he made her feel safe and she didn’t want him to leave.
“It’s okay, Clara. I can ride with you to the hospital if you like,” he soothed.
At the wordhospital,she snapped out of her shock-induced daze. She wasnotgoing to the hospital. No way, no how. “I don’t need a hospital,” she said, trying to make her voice sound strong.
“You're in shock,” Jonathon reminded her, his brow creasing in a small frown. “You need to be checked out.”
“The paramedics can do that here,” she countered.
“Your neck needs to be stitched,” Jonathon argued.
“They can do that here,” she repeated. The topic wasn't up for discussion. She simply wasn't going to go to a hospital.
“Clara,” Jonathon’s tone now sounded like he was dealing with a recalcitrant child. “You need medical attention; you probably need to be observed overnight …”
“I’m okay; I’m feeling much better.” To the paramedics, she asked, “Can you stitch the cut for me here?”
One of the paramedics looked curiously from her to Jonathon, probably wondering if there was something between them, given the intimacy their argument implied. “Yes, we can, but it’d be better to get it done at the hospital, get yourself checked out thoroughly.”
She forced her lips to curve into a small smile. “Thank you, but I really am okay. If you could just stitch the cut, then I’ll be on my way.” It occurred to her that she had no way of getting home. Her car was almost definitely evidence, and her purse had been in it. She’d have to ask Jonathon to retrieve it for her, and once he did, she would have her phone to call a cab and money to pay for it.
Shrugging, the paramedic retrieved some supplies and perched beside her. At the sight of the needle he produced, Clara’s courage waned. She hated needles even more than she hated hospitals. A terrified little moan slipped from her lips.
“Here.” Jonathon was suddenly beside her, holding out his hand. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”