“Stop trying to make this sound everyday.”
“I’m joking about the sewing,” he said, chuckling, opening another packet. The tweezers. “I’ll use suture strips. Stitches can wait.”
“You bastard.”
“You’ll have to help me with those but it shouldn’t be too bad—just like applying sticky tape. Once you’ve had a close look at a wound it’s never as daunting as you first thought. And I’ll also need your help to make sure I get everything out. Whatever’s in there, my body’s not happy about it. Every time I knock it, it does more damage.” He nodded at a tube of hand sanitizer. “Use that, first.”
They settled into silence as they worked. Like he’d said, it was easier once she was familiar with the wound, but her stomach refused to settle. Lucky she’d hardly eaten in the past twenty-four hours.
“God, this is really not my thing,” she said, as she tugged out a particularly stubborn piece of metal, unleashing a rivulet of blood that he caught with balled-up gauze.
“It’s not many people’s thing. We’re nearly done.”
She rubbed the window with her elbow, smearing the green fields.
Wait—green fields, rolling hills...
“Shit,” she said. The thought that’d been tugging at her brain... “Shit!”
“What?” He ducked to peer through the smudge in the condensation. “What’s out there?”
“Nothing. It’s what was on the fridge at Charlotte’s, what was on her social media.”
He frowned. “That kid’s picture?”
“The date of that post—it was the same as the suicide note, yes?”
A vehicle engine approached. A blue strobe flashed, and a car pulled up alongside in a haze of white and blue and yellow.
“Oh God,” Samira said. “The police.”
CHAPTER NINE
SAMIRATHREWJAMIE’Scoat over the medical supplies between them—thestolencoat, over theillegalsupplies. Exhibits A and B. Or were they up to M and N by now?
“Maybe the car’s been reported,” she whispered.
A car door opened. A radio sounded and cut out.
“Let’s hope it’s too soon for that,” Jamie said, shoving a syringe under the coat.
“What do we do now? This is not going to look good. They’re going to ask questions. I wasn’t brought up to lie to police.”
He bit his lower lip. “We do what they expect two people to be doing in the back seat of a car with the windows steamed up.” He reached over, grabbed her waist and effortlessly hoisted her over the charcoal coat and astride his lap, running his fingers up her outer thighs to hitch her dress.
“Oh my God.”
He hurriedly unbuttoned her blue coat and slipped it off her shoulders. “You’ve got that terrified look again, Samira.”
“I am terrified—not of you, of being caught.”
“Well, for God’s sake, play along.”
He grabbed her bottom with both hands and slid her up his thighs until her knees hit the back of the seat, the apex of her stockings jammed into his jeans. Oh God, oh God. He threaded a hand through her hair.
“Now you’re just looking grossed-out,” he said.
“No! Not at all.” He was usually good at reading her butthathe’d got all wrong. “Just...surprised.”
