she is. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God. Oh my God.”
Even though she realized that she had known, somewhere deep inside, about Lisa all along, his confirmation hit her like a fist to the solar plexus. Sucking in air through her mouth, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes as a great wave of dizziness broke over her. Her ears rang. Her throat tightened. Her pulse galloped. Lisa was dead. Lisa, bright, bold, always-smiling Lisa, had been horribly murdered right before her eyes.
She remembered everything now. She wished she didn’t.
Tensing, Katharine waited for the tsunami of grief she knew was going to hit. She could feel it rushing toward her, feel the darkness of it, the weight. Then, suddenly, before it could reach her, she felt—different. Strange. As if she were suddenly far away, as if the awfulness of what had happened had been muted, as if it were now somehow coming to her over a great distance. She felt disassociated from the reality of it, as if it were a story she had seen on the evening news and was vaguely sad about but that really had no connection to her at all.
Yikes. Her thought processes might be a little warped at present, but they were not so warped that she didn’t recognize that the way she was feeling—or, rather, not feeling—was wrong.
Abnormal, even.
She forced herself to open her eyes.
“Did she make it to the hospital?” Her voice was a croak. Even as she asked, ghastly images replayed in her mind: the two of them in the laundry room, the bullet slamming into Lisa, Lisa being thrown against the door ... Yes, she remembered, all right. She just couldn’t feel it. Not like she should.
His lips compressed. She could tell he didn’t like what he had to say. “No. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Blood gushing from Lisa’s chest . . .
“I can’t believe it happened.” Despite the hideously graphic quality of the pictures in her head, her voice was surprisingly steady. She knew what had happened, knew the horror of it, knew that she had suffered a terrible trauma and a grievous loss, but once again that curious detachment intervened before her emotions could fully engage.
You’re in shock, she told herself firmly. The realization was almost a relief. It explained so much. Shock was only to be expected. Shock was the norm in a situation like this. Shock would go away.
“It shouldn’t have happened.” Dan’s voice had hardened, and his expression was grim. When their eyes met, he seemed to check for an instant at whatever he saw in hers, then added in a milder tone, “Hey, the reason we pay so much rent is because our neighborhood is supposed to be safe.”
"Yes,” she agreed.
The phone by the bed rang, making her jump.
Instead of answering, she frowned, hesitated, and automatically glanced at Dan. Should I pick up? Fortunately for her own dignity, she didn’t ask the question aloud.
What is wrong with you? she demanded of herself even as the thing continued to ring and she reached for it. Of course you should answer it. It’s your damned phone. You don’t need permission.
Clearly the ordeal she’d been through had totally scrambled her wits.
“Hello?” she said into the receiver.
“Katharine? Is that you?” a voice boomed in her ear.
It was masculine, and forceful, and something about the intonation told her that the speaker knew—or at least thought he knew—her well. Without waiting for her to reply, he continued, “What the hell happened?”
Unfortunately, the voice didn’t ring a bell.
“There . . . was a robbery.” She paused, wrestling with her memory banks, waiting for the voice on the other end of the phone to compute, for the speaker’s identity to flash into her mind.
Nothing.
All she got when she concentrated was a worsening of her headache. Maybe the hospital had her doped up, she thought hopefully, glancing at the IV, and made a mental note to ask as soon as she got off the phone. That would explain why so many
“Oh, God. Oh my God.”
Even though she realized that she had known, somewhere deep inside, about Lisa all along, his confirmation hit her like a fist to the solar plexus. Sucking in air through her mouth, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes as a great wave of dizziness broke over her. Her ears rang. Her throat tightened. Her pulse galloped. Lisa was dead. Lisa, bright, bold, always-smiling Lisa, had been horribly murdered right before her eyes.
She remembered everything now. She wished she didn’t.
Tensing, Katharine waited for the tsunami of grief she knew was going to hit. She could feel it rushing toward her, feel the darkness of it, the weight. Then, suddenly, before it could reach her, she felt—different. Strange. As if she were suddenly far away, as if the awfulness of what had happened had been muted, as if it were now somehow coming to her over a great distance. She felt disassociated from the reality of it, as if it were a story she had seen on the evening news and was vaguely sad about but that really had no connection to her at all.
Yikes. Her thought processes might be a little warped at present, but they were not so warped that she didn’t recognize that the way she was feeling—or, rather, not feeling—was wrong.
Abnormal, even.
She forced herself to open her eyes.
“Did she make it to the hospital?” Her voice was a croak. Even as she asked, ghastly images replayed in her mind: the two of them in the laundry room, the bullet slamming into Lisa, Lisa being thrown against the door ... Yes, she remembered, all right. She just couldn’t feel it. Not like she should.
His lips compressed. She could tell he didn’t like what he had to say. “No. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Blood gushing from Lisa’s chest . . .
“I can’t believe it happened.” Despite the hideously graphic quality of the pictures in her head, her voice was surprisingly steady. She knew what had happened, knew the horror of it, knew that she had suffered a terrible trauma and a grievous loss, but once again that curious detachment intervened before her emotions could fully engage.
You’re in shock, she told herself firmly. The realization was almost a relief. It explained so much. Shock was only to be expected. Shock was the norm in a situation like this. Shock would go away.
“It shouldn’t have happened.” Dan’s voice had hardened, and his expression was grim. When their eyes met, he seemed to check for an instant at whatever he saw in hers, then added in a milder tone, “Hey, the reason we pay so much rent is because our neighborhood is supposed to be safe.”
"Yes,” she agreed.
The phone by the bed rang, making her jump.
Instead of answering, she frowned, hesitated, and automatically glanced at Dan. Should I pick up? Fortunately for her own dignity, she didn’t ask the question aloud.
What is wrong with you? she demanded of herself even as the thing continued to ring and she reached for it. Of course you should answer it. It’s your damned phone. You don’t need permission.
Clearly the ordeal she’d been through had totally scrambled her wits.
“Hello?” she said into the receiver.
“Katharine? Is that you?” a voice boomed in her ear.
It was masculine, and forceful, and something about the intonation told her that the speaker knew—or at least thought he knew—her well. Without waiting for her to reply, he continued, “What the hell happened?”
Unfortunately, the voice didn’t ring a bell.
“There . . . was a robbery.” She paused, wrestling with her memory banks, waiting for the voice on the other end of the phone to compute, for the speaker’s identity to flash into her mind.
Nothing.
All she got when she concentrated was a worsening of her headache. Maybe the hospital had her doped up, she thought hopefully, glancing at the IV, and made a mental note to ask as soon as she got off the phone. That would explain why so many
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