Page 20 of Corrupting Ivy

The bloodied woman jerked her gaze to the gawker, then back to me just as Mr. Grady jumped from his seat and stripped his shirt off his back, then handed it to me. I wrapped it around her shoulders, giving her some veneer of dignity.

I gave him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

She locked her frightened look to the floor, staring at the blood pooling at her feet.

“The police are on their way,” someone said.

“That’s great. Can someone get me some towels, please?”

“I need to apply pressure to your arm. It’ll be okay. You’re going to be just fine.” I said in a hushed tone.

She tipped her gaze up, her stringy hair swaying with the motion. “He took me,” she said, gasping for air, then collapsed in my arms, dragging us to the floor. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she shook from the hard tremors that wracked her body. Foam seeped from her cracked lips, her muscles stiffening and with two hard jerks, she stilled, going limp in my arms.

I sucked in a shaky breath as tears welled in my eyes, then shook my head.

No. What just happened?

I pressed two fingers to her jugular, checking for a pulse, but found it as still as her chest. She wasn’t breathing, either. Pushing her off my lap, I got on my knees.

How do you do CPR? Think, Ivy.

The door swung open just as I tipped her head back, and officers filed, rushing towards me. “She doesn’t have a pulse.”

“Back away, Ivy,” the deputy ordered with a palm outstretched towards me. He got down on his knees before her, checked her breathing and pulse, and came to the same conclusion I did, then began CPR while I watched with bated breath.

I expected her to sit up gasping for breath, just as they did in the movies. With each compression on her chest, air escaped her lungs with a wet, gurgling noise, but she never drew one in.

Someone tapped on my shoulder, but I couldn’t move. I just sat on my heels, my bloodied hands clutching my apron until someone wrapped their hands around my arms and pulled me away from her.

I turned, confused, to find Randall behind me, dragging me away from the diner. “Wait, I don’t want to leave her,” I said, tugging on him as he continued to march me out the door and to my apartment.

“They can’t help her.” His deep baritone voice held no emotion for the woman I just held in my arms as she died.

I jerked my wrist, but it didn’t budge in his powerful grasp. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He spun on me, cold eyes narrowed as he set his gaze on me. “The foaming at the mouth… most likely caused by poison. Judging by the amount of blood on the floor, she had a few more minutes at that rate of blood loss. The killer wanted her seen but didn’t want her alive to speak. She’s dead, and there isn’t anything they can do.”

“How do you know that?”

He spun away from me and pulled me through the door, where he locked us inside. “Because it’s what I would have done.”

I yanked my hand again, and this time he loosened his grip, letting me escape. “What does that mean?” I stumbled back a step or two and swallowed the painfully large lump in my throat.

“It means I can get into his head. I know how he thinks.”

“Like… like a profiler or something?”

“Or something.”

I raised my hands to run them through my hair, then froze. Blood covered my fingers, my apron, and my nice pair of jeans.

Grimacing, I cried out. “I told her she’d be okay.” I stared at my bloodied hands. “She was going to be okay.” Randall stepped towards me, wrapping his hands around my fingers, closing my bloody hands.

“You shouldn’t make promises you cannot keep.”

A heavy sigh blew through my lips as a tear landed on my arm. I backed away from him, untying my ruined apron, then made my way to the bathroom, where I shut the door. I needed a physical barrier between us. You just don’t say that to someone who’s experienced what I just did. How could he be so calm when a woman just died in my arms?

I pulled off my shirt in a hurry, desperate to rid myself of the memory. Blood stained the knees and butt of my jeans. I guess the surrounding chaos had blinded me. That must have been how I didn’t notice the warmth of her blood soaking into my pants. I threw my ruined jeans into the corner of the bathroom and gasped. Her death didn’t just stain my clothes, but my skin as well. Turning on the water, I waited for the heat to steam the room, then stepped inside and scrubbed myself so raw, I couldn’t tell the difference between my skin and her blood.

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