Page 91 of Savage Beauty

He probably has a list of employees.

“I received a phone call from my girlfriend. She’s hurt. She’s inside. Didn’t want to call an ambulance or anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s hurt?”

“She fell. You know, getting something out of one of those top cabinets in the lab. She’s not supposed to be using the ladder when there’s no one else around. Doesn’t want to get in trouble. You know how it is.”

“I was just inside. Didn’t see anything. But I did hear something. Thought it might be an engine backfiring.”

“She’s in her lab. Down the back hall. It’s ah… room 2A.”

“Those doors are closed.” He lifts his shirttail and tugs at a keychain that’s hooked to his belt loop. “She shoulda called out to me. It’s not like I care if she breaks rules. I’m just here to prevent theft.”

He unlocks the door, and I push past him. “Thanks, man.”

I tear down the hall. There are only two labs in this building that I’ve been in. Sloane’s and Dr. Kallio’s.

Smeared blood stains the white tile around the corner, and I sprint. The security guard’s footsteps track behind me. He hasn’t yet come across the blood, but he’ll be there in seconds.

Tracks lead directly to Dr. Kallio’s lab. If Sloane did this, she didn’t bother to conceal the evidence.

I pull my gun and thrust the door open with all my might, going for the element of surprise. The door slams against the wall. No one faces me. If anyone’s in here with a weapon, they’re hiding.

The footsteps click down the hall at a fast pace.

A stream of blood flows to the door. Shoe prints. Two styles.

I track the prints.

Find two navy heels. Pants. Blouse.

The chest rises.

She’s alive.

The source of blood is a knife wound in her neck.

“What the…”

“Call emergency services. She’s alive.”

“Shit! Holy fuck.” The security guard is not a happy man.

I step forward and check for a pulse. It’s faint. There’s a lot of blood on this floor.

Her eyelids flutter. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get you help. Can you tell me who did this?”

Her lips move. I bend closer, both to hear her and to examine the wound. The blood flow has slowed, which isn’t a good sign.

“Sloane.”

The word is unmistakable. I sit back on my heels, taking stock.

It’s a knife wound. Sloane killed the nurse with a knife.

I scan the room. And then I see it. A pistol. A Ruger Max-9. Three feet to the side of her.

Fuck. I was right. Self-defense.

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