Page 33 of Eyes in the Shadows

Is it sick that part of me thrills that she's got no other options now?

“Hand me the gun, darlin’,” I say again, even gentler this time. I can see that she’s shaking from here, and I’m concerned that, for someone who’s never really dealt with shock before, it might feel disorienting enough to make her unpredictable. “Or, at least point it somewhere else, yeah?”

“It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” she says softly, looking down at her hand like she doesn’t recognize it. She shakes her head, like she’s snapping herself out of it, and extends her arm towards me, palm up.

“Good girl.” I breathe out my relief. I wipe her fingerprints away with the bottom of my shirt, just in case. Then, I engage the safety, and tuck it in my waistband so my shirt covers it.

“H-how did you…” she inhales shakily.

“There will be time for questions later,” I say. “Are you hurt?”

I scan her body, telling myself it’s just to check for injuries, which is a lie. Because she’s really, gloriously, goddamn naked. I try to tear my gaze away, but it’s hard when every soft, pale, dimpled inch of her is on display in front of me like a fucking buffet for the eyes. I should be a gentleman and get her a towel, but I’m an asshole so I don’t.

I want to memorize it. I’ve spent so long admiring the small, far away version of her through my scope that this doesn’t feel real and all I want to do is touch her to make sure it is.

But when she says nothing, I look up and see that she’s fixed on the body on the ground, her eyes welling with tears. “Don’t look at him. Eyes on me, darlin’.” I point with two fingers, “Right here.”

Gratifyingly, she does as I say, but starts shivering. As if suddenly realizing just how naked she is, she folds into herself, crossing one leg in front of the other and her arm over her chest; and I finally feel like enough of a schmuck to stop staring and help her out.

I find her towel on the ground near the body. I bend over to scoop it up, ignoring the pain in my side, and drop to one knee in front of her as she sits on the bench. Trying to ignore the feeling of rightness that settles deep in my belly, that she’s nude and I’m on my knees in front of her, I drape the towel over her shoulders and grip her upper arms. “Eleanor, I need you to calm down. Breathe. Can you do that for me?”

She nods, not meeting my eye. A deep inhale, a long exhale. A tear falls down her cheek and I reach up to wipe it away with the tips of my fingers. She flinches a little at the touch.

Rage wells in my chest. I wish I’d had the time to kill him slowly for scaring my girl.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks after another two measured breaths.

“Yes.” Shit. If she starts freaking out on me—

“You saved me,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll have to bask in the satisfaction later. I’m getting too distracted by her as it is, and we don’t have much time.

Fuck. How do I get us out of this one? Thankfully, the gun didn’t go off and strangulation is a relatively clean way to die, but it’s only 8 PM. The world is still plenty awake, though it’s as dark as midnight in the early night of winter. But people are going to start returning into the building any minute. I need to get him out of here. I need to getherout of here.

“Where are your clothes? You need to get dressed. We’ve gotta get out of here before anyone gets back.”

“But…” she begins, flicking her gaze back behind me. “We can’t just leave him—”

“Let me worry about it. Go get dressed. Quick as you can. Then I’ll figure out how to get us out of here.”

Before she stands, she pulls the towel off her shoulders and holds it in front of her body.Sure, you can be shy now,I want to tell her. At least I’ve got that mental image burned into my brain to use later.

I rise from my knees and turn to my problem. I hear her exit the steam room and the wet plopping noises of her feet on the tile floor as she hurries to wherever she stashed her bag.

I sigh and look back down at the body. Even if I didn’t have a dislocated shoulder, a bruised rib and a kidney contusion, this guy is probably 250-260. I could do it, but I wouldn’t make it look easy. And there’s no way I can leave him here. My prints are all over, her prints are all over, and I clocked at least four cameras in public spaces on my way in. I know I didn’t avoid them all completely in my rush.

Fuck.

Well, there’s nothing for it but to try. I take care of the dislocated shoulder first. Luckily, it’s my left again, so relocating it is a matter of some pressure in the right place and bracing myself for the pop. It isn’t a bad one, where the arm is completely out of the joint, so the pain is minimal.

After a quick check of his pockets yields a wallet, phone, another hidden gun and a fake detective badge, I get him sitting up. His dead weight is substantial, but manageable that far at least. The only way I’ll be able to do this is to get him over my shoulder, but it’s going to be really fucking hard to play that one off to the spectators. I’ll have to give Eleanor an excuse to tell anyone who sees us. And I’m also concerned about the van he claimed was waiting at the emergency exit. He was probably bluffing, but in my hurry, I didn’t check.

“Mac?”

I turn around at the tentative voice. She’s got her shirt and shorts on—no bra, and I’d wager no panties either—and her feet have been shoved sockless into some sneakers. “Yeah, baby?” the endearment slips out, but she’s too shell-shocked to notice or care.

She looks down at the key around her wrist on one of those coil cord keychains. “How long… um, does it take for a… dead… p-person to start smelling?”

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