Page 81 of Not This Time

Both to his chest.

He toppled, hitting the ground in a pool of his own blood, under the rain.

She was moving already, lunging into the car for the police radio. "Backup needed. Officer down. Paramedics at my location. I repeat, backup needed. Now!"

Her mind was spinning. She glanced in the mirror and spotted the woman in the back staring in horror at the dying man.

Rachel lowered the receiver for a second and whispered, "Look at me. Not at him. Look at me."

The woman in the backseat nodded, then closed her eyes completely.

Good enough, Rachel thought.

The rainstorm continued around them, and the killer had stopped moving where he lay in the mud.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Rachel lay in the sterile hospital bed, her body adorned with bandages that covered the wounds from her recent ordeal. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor underscored the quietness of the room, punctuated only by the soft hiss of the oxygen she breathed through a nasal cannula.

She was currently in the middle of pulling off the nasal breathing device, having decided this was clearly overkill.

"Smoke inhalation my ass," she muttered under her breath, peeling off medical tape from the bridge of her nose.

She winced as she moved. But felt weak for showing the pain at all, and returned her expression to something a bit more impassive.

Suddenly, the door to her hospital room opened with a gentle creak, and Ethan Morgan stepped inside, his face etched with worry. As he approached Rachel's bedside, his gaze fell upon the array of medical equipment surrounding her. Although she was on the mend, it was evident that she had been through a harrowing experience.

"Hey, Rachel," Ethan said softly, his voice tinged with concern.

She gave him a hard look. "Don't give me that shit."

He blinked. "W-what?" Then he pointed at the oxygen tube. "Are you supposed to remove that?"

"Yeah," she said simply. "And you know what shit."

"I... was just stopping by to see how you're doing."

"Fine," she said, propping up in the bed and keeping her glare on Ethan. "I'm fine. Don't use that mothering tone when you talk to me. And don't look at me like that."

Ethan looked completely taken aback from this blitz assault against his every mannerism.

Rachel watched as Ethan's face fell, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. In many ways, he really was like a scorned puppy.

But she couldn't stand pity.

Not in the slightest. She had grown up without the luxury of pity… or compassion, really. Her aunt had been both father and mother… Distant in both roles, but doing her best. Rachel hadn’t grown up with much nurturing. She’d been trained. Been honed into a weapon.

And now, it was clear to her that everyone was overreacting to mostly superficial wounds. She needed to get out of this damn place.

She was pulling at a bandage on her arm when Ethan said, "O'Connor died."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. But don't blame yourself."

She looked at him. "I don't," she said simply. "I blame him." She considered him for a moment, and he didn’t reply at first.

It was almost as if hewantedher to feel bad but wanted to assure her not to. But she didn't feel bad. She'd shot a psychopath to save a life. To protect herself.

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