The silence that follows drags.
Then, after what feels like an interminable wait, she replies, “Alright. You can come in.”
Before she can change her mind, I twist the knob and push the door open. As I walk through the doorway, my gaze jumps straight to Bea, assessing.
She looks the same as before, basically. Except now her eyes are all pink and her cheeks are tear-streaked and flushed. She’s sitting up, with her arms wrapped around her bent legs and her chin resting on her knees. Her long hair falls in thick golden curtains around her face, casting shadows across her delicate features.
The red stain in her hair catches my eye and I wonder if I should offer to get a damp washcloth for it.
Or if she even knows the blood is there.
Shit. She probably doesn’t. And I really don’t want to be the one to tell her.
Closing the door behind me, I move into the room and towards the bed, stopping several feet from it. “How are you doing?” A beat later, I realize the insanity of what I just asked. Of course she’s not good. How could she be?
“Um.” Bea digs her teeth into her lip. “Not great, honestly.”
“Can I take a look at you? Just to check your pulse, reflexes, pupil response—nothing intrusive.”
She stares at me, her brow furrowing. Then the lines in her forehead smooth out. “Right. You were a medic, weren’t you?”
I try to ignore the burst of pleasure that comes with her remembering. “I was. And I’m acting medic for my team now, as well. So I’ve kept up with my training. I’m no doctor, but I can manage basic triage, first aid, stuff like that.”
Bea gives me an appraising look. Then she nods. “Okay.” As I take another step towards her, she adds, “But I have questions. And I need you to promise you’ll answer them honestly.”
There’s no hesitation. “I will. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
She watches me as I approach the bed. Her gaze is solemn. Watchful. Hesitant.
Once I’m beside her, I take her wrist in my hand and rest my fingers over her pulse. She waits for me to finish counting before she asks, “Am I really the primary suspect? In… Jenna’s death?”
With a nod, I reply, “Unfortunately, yes.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “How? It doesn’t make sense. I remember seeing her on the floor, all bloody—” Her voice cracks.
“There’s evidence.”
“What evidence? Do you know?”
I busy myself checking her reflexes so I don’t have to see her anguished expression. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes.” It’s firm. Scared, but certain.
So I tell her, hating every second of it. I tell her about the fingerprints on the knife. The blood on her shoes and clothes. When I mention the defensive wounds on her arms, Bea gasps and looks at her bare arms in horror. Long scratch marks drag down her forearms, scabbed over, but fresh.
“But…” Bea’s voice wobbles.“How?”
That damn fist punches into my chest again.
I drag my gaze to hers. “Whoever hurt you could have done it post—” My mouth snaps shut.
She flinches. Then quietly, she says, “Post Mortem. Right?” When I nod, she adds, “Don’t hide anything from me. You promised to tell me the truth.”
“Yes. Post Mortem. I talked to my team about it, and that’s what we think happened. Same with the fingerprints. And the blood.”
“But I wasunconscious.”
“I know.” Perching on the edge of the bed, I lift the bandage carefully away from her forehead to check beneath it. The cut is held closed by two small butterfly bandages, but it’ll likely leave a small scar behind. Which, for some reason, feels abhorrent to me.
