Page 41 of Legacy of Lies
“Are you all right? I heard a sound.”
“How did ... What are you doing here?” Her voice wavered, too breathy, as she darted glances past him, toward the street. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“What’s going on in there, Sara?”
He wanted to move heaven and earth to erase that frown.
“Nothing.”
“I heard a sound. Are you hurt?”
That dazed expression on her face? Not good.
“Glass. From a window. The window. You know, the window in the kitchen.” Her hand shook as she rubbed the front of her neck. The door opened a few more inches. “And the picture’s broken. All broken.”
The lost look on her face, her dilated pupils. Was she in shock?
“What happened? Sara?”
“I don’t know.” She swallowed convulsively. A strand of damp hair clung to her neck.
Gooseflesh prickled along his spine, and he whispered, “Is someone in there?”
Licking her lips, she pinned him with a haunted look. “I don’t know.”
When he glanced around her into the house, dark shiny smears dotted the hardwood floor. “Shit, are you bleeding?”
When she lifted her foot, blood dripped from the sole. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Her dry lips paled, and her eyes rolled back in the sockets.
He shouldered his way into the house and grabbed her before she hit the floor. Kicking the door closed with one boot, he half carried, half dragged her limp frame to the nearby couch and eased her head onto a cushion.
Propping her feet up on a pillow on the arm of the couch, he examined the cut sole. A piece of glass protruded from a two-inch gash that oozed blood. He’d take care of it as soon as he made sure she was otherwise okay. At least when he placed a hand on her sternum, her breathing was even and her heartbeat steady. Maybe she had passed out from the sight of blood or pain?
But what about the fear etched on her face? Embedded glass didn’t cause fear, did it?
Not wanting to leave for long, he hurried to follow the blood track to the kitchen, searching for supplies for her foot. Frigid air drifted into the house, thanks to a shattered window over the sink. A faded photo of a woman resembling Sara and a young girl lay on the floor within a broken picture frame.
More glass crunched under his boots as he grabbed a cup of water and a towel.
As he turned, his foot bumped an object on the floor. He used one of the cloths to pick it up. A melon-sized rounded stone, like from a river, with a dull metal chain lashed around it. What the hell?
At a soft groan from the living room, he dropped the rock on the table, rushed back to Sara, and knelt next to the couch.
The wings of her dark eyelashes swept shadows over her tan cheeks, tempting him to rest his lips on the flawless skin. Other areas of his anatomy decided to use this inappropriate opportunity to take notice of her lush curves as well. Damn his starved libido; this was not the time.
Her head lolled toward him, her eyes fluttered open and widened, and she gave out a strangled cry.
“Sara, sh. It’s Garrison.” He patted her shoulder closest to him.
“What?” When she tried to sit up, her foot hit the pillow. “Ow! Crap.”
“Yeah, looks like you got some glass in there, honey.” He sat up straight, ready for her gratitude. Maybe she’d give him a kiss for his gallantry.
“You have to leave.”
What?
His puffed up chest deflated. Just like that, he went from hero to stooge. Not the reception he’d expected.
