Pierce looked at Aiden. “We have all hospitals, doctor offices, and vets in the area on alert just in case.”
Aiden didn’t twitch.
A ruckus sounded outside in the hall. “Oh my. Bernie? Where’s my Bernie?” Florence ran into the room, her hair in curlers, a man’s overcoat covering what looked like a long flannel nightgown. “Anna. Oh, my.” Her boots slipped on the now wet floor, and Aiden caught her arm before she could fall. She centered herself and walked carefully toward me, a thick white night-time lotion over her pasty face. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. It took me a moment to figure out what was off with her face. She didn’t have any eyebrows. Oh. She must draw them on. She was good at it because I hadn’t even noticed the other day. “I am, and Bernie is out of surgery and will be fine.” My voice was still hoarse.
She dropped into the one guest chair, and some of the dried white lotion on her face flaked off. “I was so scared.” Her voice shook, and she looked older than she had the other day. “Who shot at you? Was it Hoyt?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The man wore a ski mask.”
Pierce zeroed in on her. “Do you have any reason to believe Hoyt would shoot at Bernie?”
Florence’s hands fluttered together on the olive-drab overcoat. “Nothing concrete. It’s just that Hoyt was so angry after the reading of the will, and he said he thinks Bernie and I killed Lawrence.” Tears filled her eyes, turning the lotion right beneath her lower lashes to paste.
“Did you?” Pierce asked
Florence’s body jerked. “No. Of course not.”
It took me a second to remember that I represented her, but my brain was still fuzzy.
Pierce angled his body so he could better see her expression. “Who do you think killed Lawrence?”
Florence turned to look at him, her shoulders shaking. “You already interviewed me, Detective Pierce. I’m going to tell you right now, just like I did then, that I can’t imagine anybody wanting Lawrence dead. He was a kind man.”
Pierce scratched his chin. “Was he? You know he left a substantial sum in his will to Sharon Smith, right?”
“Yes,” Florence said, pivoting to face me. “But we don’t know who she is or how Lawrence knew her.”
I hadn’t had a chance to speak with Florence yet about Sharon, and apparently neither had Bernie. “Pierce? That’s enough.”
Pierce was a decent man and a phenomenal detective. “Sharon Smith is the woman who slept with Bernie McLintock when you were married to him. She is the reason your marriage broke up.” He watched her carefully.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Florence paled even further. She frowned, and more of the white lotion flaked off. “What?” Her voice shook.
“Pierce,” I snapped, putting as much bite into my voice as my exhaustion would allow. “Leave my client alone. Now.”
He apparently had gotten what he’d wanted, so he nodded and then exited the room.
Florence’s eyes filled with more tears. “I don’t understand.”
Neither did I, but I was going to figure it out. No matter what.
Aiden sighed from over by the doorway.
I awoke from a dead sleep,my skin prickling and my breath stilling. Quiet pounded through my cottage. Heat seeped into me from the hard male body hogging my bed. I breathed out, forcing my lungs to start working again. Aiden slept quietly on his stomach, his head turned the other way, one arm beneath his pillow.
My head hurt.
Holding my breath again, I slowly lifted the covers and slid out, my feet touching the cold floor. I was wearing one of Aiden’s T-shirts that reached almost to my knees, but my legs were bare and the world cold.
Even so, I padded quietly out of the bedroom and shut the door, wandering to my sofa to stare at the Christmas lights twinkling on my tree. I liked to leave them on at night and most of the day, wondering why we didn’t have sparkling lights all year long. I sat and reached for the hand-knitted blanket that my Nana had given me last year. It was white and green with Celtic knots strewn throughout, and I snuggled deep into it, holding the soft material up to my neck.
Tears filled my eyes and I batted them away.
It was late morning outside, and I tried to match my mood to a sleepy wintery day.
My blood snapped and cracked through my veins, my heart racing and little beads of sweat popping onto my forehead. It wasn’t my first panic attack, and it wouldn’t be my last. Even so, each time I wondered if I was having a heart attack. My chest did hurt. And my left arm ached. Of course, my right arm hurt as well. I’d tightened so hard that all of my muscles ached.
