Page 107 of Hidden Resolution
As his body crumpled to the floor, she darted a wild glance around the room, ensuring he was alone. Next, she checked for a pulse, not expecting to find one. Her aim was true.
“Jesus! Tell me you didn’t go all Natasha Romanoff on this guy without backup rolling,” Mason demanded. His movie reference might’ve been funny if she were in a laughing mood.
“Well, yours is a mighty fine thank you.” She plopped down next to him. “But since you favorably compared me to Scarlett Johansson, I’ll forgive you.”
“Shonda Grant, when I’m mobile again, I’m going to spank your ass,” he growled, reaching for her. Cupping her face, hegazed deep into her eyes and shook his head. “What is wrong with you that you can’t follow directions?”
“Seriously? I just saved your ungrateful ass, and your anger is what I get for it?” she asked, ending on a ragged note. Her hysteria had returned.
“Love, I’m going to need you to remain calm.” He caressed her nape in long, slow strokes.
“Calm? I’m perfectly calm.” Her shrillness would break glass if everything wasn’t already shattered.
His lips curled.
Okay, so she wasn’t very calm. She began shaking in earnest.
“Ohmygod! Mason, I just killed my cousin.” Hiccuping sobs convulsed her body.
They weren’t for the backstabbing prick Billy had become, but for the gangly teen she’d treated as a brother.
“Shonda, sweetheart,” he panted. “You can’t break down. I need your strength one more time.”
Alert to the danger, she stilled. Gray tinged his skin, cluing her in.
“Call an ambulance,” he ordered. “All this blood isn’t his.”
“Fuck me!”
“I’d like nothing more once I get my strength back,” he murmured, collapsing against her.
Eyes closed, deathly pale, and grip slackening, Mason passed out.
Shonda scrambled up, but the blood on the tile created a slick surface, causing her to slip and slide as she ran for the hallway. Tearing through the house, she frantically tried to recall where she’d last had her purse. Mason’s arrival, coupled with the shooting, had her discombobulated.
A minute later, she stumbled across the bag on the living room floor. After dumping the contents, she rifled through until she found her cell.
Dispatch remained on the line as she reported details of Mason’s condition. They talked her through finding the wound and applying pressure. Since the process was universal knowledge, she suspected they were attempting to keep her from losing her shit completely.
Within minutes, the paramedics were on scene, loading him into their rig.
Thank Christ!
Shonda shook her head in disbelief. How were they playing out the same scene for a second time in less than a month? Constant craziness had become her life.
And exactly like before, because she was responsible for taking a life, the police refused to let her accompany Mason to the hospital. Instead, they cuffed her, brought her to the station, and demanded she recount the circumstances surrounding the shooting. Multiple times, until she thought she’d go mad.
“Do I need a lawyer?” she asked wearily.
Thornton was a helluva lot different than Stonebrooke. There, Bucky and others had her best interests at heart. Here, where she was unknown, she was viewed with suspicion.
“Did you do anything to warrant one?” the grizzled officer asked with a smirk.
“Not if you view self-defense as warranted,” she said, rubbing the spot between her brows. Mason could be dead for all she knew, and she was stuck in an endless cycle of interrogation, all in the hopes of tripping her up.
After another hour, they were satisfied with her story.
A kindly officer drove her to the trauma center.
