When her mind cleared and the pain faded enough for her to have a rational thought, she realized that Coughlin’s hands were around her throat. As she struggled against his hold, she stared at his face, at his normal impassive expression. The scariest part of everything was his lack of emotion. If he was about to kill her, he should at least be raging. There was nothing, though. His eyes were empty.
“This actually worked out for the best,” he said evenly as his fingers tightened around her throat. “You had to go next anyway. I hadn’t figured out how to cover up Deputy Jennings’s death, but now it can be a murder-suicide, a tragic possessive-lover kind of thing. It’s a shame. He’s a good cop. Too bad he’s so infatuated with you.”
She tried to fight, to shove him back, but his hands held her still. It was so wrong, that people would think Chris had killed her and then killed himself. Her training finally kicked in, and she grabbed his right arm with both hands in the first step toward freeing herself from his hold. The lack of air was already making her limbs clumsy and unwilling to follow her directions, and her fingers couldn’t keep their grip.
As her struggles weakened and her vision narrowed, all she could see was the sheriff’s emotionless face, and she thought of how unfair it was to be killed right after she’d finally managed to leave her house. To have a life. In a final burst of strength, she yanked at his wrists, trying to free her airway from his compressing hands. It was like his arms were made of concrete, though, and her weakening, air-starved muscles were no match for him. Her hands went limp and fell to the floor, and a gray cloud darkened her vision.
A loud boom was quickly followed by two more, and Coughlin’s face was covered in a waterfall of blood. She squeezed her eyes closed as it spattered onto her skin, right before his forehead crashed against hers. His hands had fallen away from her neck, and she sucked in air, trapped under his weight.
Then he was gone, pushed to the side, and she opened her eyes to see Chris’s face—battered and bloody and grim, but still more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen in her life. Something was running into her eyes, making them sting and water. When she touched the side of her face with her fingers, though, she winced and reconsidered any kind of contact.
“Dais.” He reached toward her with shaking hands and then pulled back, as if he was afraid of hurting her. “God, Daisy. I thought you were dead. I thought I was too late.”
“Hey, Chris.” It hurt to talk, but it also hurt to not move, so she figured she might as well say something. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” It was an obvious lie. She just had to look at him to see that, but at least he was conscious and talking and not dead. “Where are you hurt? Is any of this your blood?”
She blinked. Her lashes felt gummy, and she didn’t know why. “What?” Raising her head, she looked down her front. Her hoodie had been light blue, but blood stained the top half, leaving it wet and sticky against her skin. If she continued to think about that, she’d throw up again, so she concentrated on Chris’s question, instead. Everything was aching and sore, but she didn’t feel anything that felt critical.
“Keep your head still,” he warned, pressing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t move until Med checks you out.”
Lowering her head to the floor, she watched as Chris yanked out his phone and tapped the screen. As he held the cell to his ear, he let his other hand brush her cheek so, so lightly. Although she knew something was off, that she was too calm, Daisy just lay still and enjoyed the feel of his fingers on her skin as he talked to Dispatch. She realized how scared she’d been that she’d never get to experience his touch again.
The ceiling was spatter-painted with chunky red, and she couldn’t keep looking at that. Hoping that Chris was too occupied with the call to notice, Daisy turned her head. Inches away from her face were the sheriff’s dead eyes. Caught by his vacant stare, she couldn’t look away, couldn’t even blink, until hands straightened her face, gently turning her gaze back toward the bloody ceiling.
To her relief, Chris’s face blocked her view of the sprays of blood and…other stuff. “You still with me, Dais?”
“Yes.” Her voice was flat and as hoarse as a pack-a-day smoker’s. “Did you shoot him?”
He nodded. “Three times in the top of the head. It was the only target available to me.”
She tried to nod, but his hold prevented it.
His forehead touched hers, and she held back a wince. The throb of pain was muted, though, and she didn’t want to lose the contact with Chris.
“I didn’t hesitate this time,” he said, so quietly she barely heard him. He didn’t sound like himself, and she wondered if he was in shock. Daisy was pretty sure she was. It wasn’t normal to be that calm. Maybe being terrified for so long had fried all the fear receptors in her brain.
Lifting a hand, she stroked the back of his head, trying not to think of how she was getting blood in his hair. “Thank you.”