Page 12 of Her Billionaire Protector

“Ssshhh.” He turns my arm over to reveal a smattering of blue splotches around an angry injection site. “No more of this.” He shakes his head.

I sigh. I’ll have to go get a full blood panel. Can’t expect a cheap murderer to use a clean needle.

I don’t have time for this bullshit. I messed up. Now instead of tightening the rope around Harvey’s neck like I should be I’m laid out and nodding off.

Maybe Idon’thave what it takes to see this case through. Maybe that fucking pissant Supervisory Agent was right.

“I’m sorry I drugged you,” I blurt out.

“Me too,” he says. That’s fair. I’ve got no follow up, and I sure as hell don’t have the strength or the presence of mind to begin to discuss anything that’s happened in the past 24 hours.

I manage to rest my head on Armin without another yelp escaping me. He strokes my hair back from my face, extra gentle around the lacerations and bruises, all the swollen and broken parts. My eyes are still stinging, too. I can’t imagine what I look like, and I don’t have the inclination to check myself out in a mirror.

That’s a horror show for tomorrow.

“HPG has a doctor on call. I’ll have him come by.”

I don’t argue.

Armin hums a song I don’t recognize, the melody a low rumble in his throat. All the other parts of me are waking up from the fentanyl or heroin or whatever it was, little by little, to hum with a new pain of their own. I have to ignore it, or I’m never going to make it through this night.

I drowse, and I think of her. God, she loved the rain.

I remember when Hurricane Bertha hit our little town. Nicole thought it was such a great idea for us to go dance outside in the rain and the gale-force winds. Mom and dad were so pissed. And they were right. It wasn’t a smart thing to do. But hell, it was fun. I used to think, if they’d’ve only lightened up, maybe she would have stayed with us, with me.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been conned by a monster like Harvey Blagas. Maybe she would still be alive. I was eleven when my big sister disappeared. She was sixteen.

“Mia?” Armin touches my good arm, a gentle brush with the backs of his knuckles, and it jolts me back to reality. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I stare out the window, and I watch the raindrops hit and fall.

eight

. . .

Armin

I siton the edge of the bed, and I watch Mia’s back rise and fall. She’s slept the better part of the past three days.

Morphine overdose, according to the blood test. She’s dizzy and tired when she’s awake. Not her usual self. Doesn’t talk back enough, not for Mia.

I hate it.

I reach out to cradle one of her curls in my fingers the way I used to, then think better of it and leave her be. I pace over to the kitchen. I’d made her an extra little pot of coffee when I first woke up, hours ago. Now it's cold. I pour it into a mug and down it myself and set about emptying out the pot so I can brew a fresh one when she wakes up.

No blood infections, no broken bones. No obvious corneal damage from the rubbing alcohol, though I want to get her to an eye doctor to be on the safe side.

Mia’s used up another one of her nine lives, but she’s mostly okay.

I’m not. I get the coffee set up for another round, whenever she wakes up, and then pace back to the window to peer out the blinds. Nothing of interest outside.

She insists the morphine was them, not her. I wonder.

I love her, but I don’t know her.

I want to check out the injection site, make sure it’s healing, redo her bandages, tend to those awful scrapes on her heels. She needs rest, though, more than anything, while the morphine works through her system. So I hold off.

I retreat to the loft’s office. I can never think straight when I’m around her. Even when she’s asleep.