“Blood,” she managed, then sucked in a breath between hiccuping and shivering. “Blood.”
“Whose blood is it?” I asked warily, glad that I’d thought to wrap her in the blanket. The fact was, I had an unfortunate tendency to pass out at the sight of blood. It’s not my finest quality, and it was a testament to my love for Robin that I didn’t shriek and drop like a tree when I first saw her.
Robin ignored my question and stared bleakly at Derek.
“Robin, love, we’re going to have to call the police,” he said gently.
“No,” she whispered. She turned and appealed silently to me. She tried to reach for me, grab my arm, but she was wrapped like a mummy in the blanket. I watched her struggle for a moment before I thought to pull her hand free and grip it in mine. I refused to think about her bloodstained palms.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We won’t call the police.” I gave Derek a look that said, Not now, but soon.
He seemed to understand, and turned to Robin. “We won’t call the police yet, but you must try to tell us what happened.”
I helped her take another sip of water.
“Alex,” she uttered finally.
I thought for a moment. “Mr. Wonderful? The man you met at the Indian restaurant?”
She nodded slightly. “I . . . We . . . um, we went to dinner. Then he came back . . . to my place. We had some wine . . . and . . . you know . . .” She paused and met my gaze.
“Yes, I know.”
“Then . . . we went to sleep.”
“He spent the night at your house.”
She nodded, then signaled for more water. It was slow going, but she was beginning to come around. Her skin wasn’t quite so pale and damp, and her eyes seemed clearer than before.
“I slept,” she whispered. “I’ve never slept so well. It was . . . it was wonderful. So deep. Peaceful.”
I looked at Derek. “She’s always been a really light sleeper. If she wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, she’ll get up and start working on her sculptures.”
Even when she was young, Robin didn’t sleep through the night. My mom used to think it was because she was worried about her own mother.
“I woke up,” Robin continued slowly. “I needed to use the bathroom. I was so sleepy. Groggy, you know?”
She sought our acknowledgment after every other sentence, so at this, Derek nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“I came back to bed. I was so sleepy, I almost tripped over a pillow on the floor. I picked it up. There were marks on it, like . . . like dirt streaks. It was weird. I could barely keep my eyes open, but you know how I get a little anal retentive about things.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, relieved that small pieces of her personality seemed to be returning.
“I didn’t want to wake Alex by turning on the bedroom light, so I took the pillow into the bathroom to look at it.”
She swallowed, started to sniffle; then one teardrop fell, followed by another as she continued. “It . . . it was blood. I thought maybe he’d cut himself. Then . . . then I happened to look in the mirror. I screamed. I had blood on my face. Clumped in my hair. On my hands.”
She stopped to try to swallow again. For a second or two, I thought she might throw up. I felt close to it myself.
“I ran back to check on Alex and saw more streaks on the sheets. There was enough light coming in from the street that I could see dark streaks and . . . and blotches. Everywhere. I yelled his name to wake him up, then shook him. I flipped the light on and that’s when I saw . . .”
“What did you see?” Derek asked with remarkable calm.
She covered her face with both hands. “I was so afraid. I hated to leave him, but I had to get out of there. I ran. I’m so ashamed.”
“Tell me what you saw before you ran,” Derek said evenly.
“Blood. Everywhere.” She shuddered uncontrollably. “Alex. Dead. Blood trickling down his face, on the sheets. On the wall above the bed. On my hands, my stomach, my legs. I was covered in his blood.”
“Did you see a weapon?” Derek asked carefully. “Was he stabbed? Shot? Could you tell?”
Grimacing, she said, “No. No weapon. Just . . . b-bullet holes. In his . . .” She couldn’t say the words, just covered her eyes again.
“Robin?”
She nodded, then managed to rub her forehead. “Here.” Then she touched her chest. “Here.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head and rocked slightly back and forth.
“Somebody shot him in the head and the chest?” I exchanged a quick, apprehensive glance with Derek. “While you were sleeping?”
“And I never woke up,” she whispered on a sob. “I was curled up next to him, holding him, but I never woke up.”
“It’s okay,” I said, and wrapped my arm around her shoulders.