Page 4 of Cold Mercy

He looks out at the crowd, smiling with that confident smile. Then he turns his head slightly, looking directly at me. His eyes are intensely focused in a way that makes the rest of the room disappear.

“Thank you for standing with us tonight,” he says, his voice amplifying across the rooftop. “Thank you for showing that in a world this cruel, there is still room for mercy.”

Suddenly, the night splits. All I hear is one sound. A single, deafening shot.

My knees go first. I fold in on myself as if someone pushed me. I look for Noah’s eyes and can’t find them. His body is on the deck beside me, white shirt blooming red in a fast, merciless flower. I reach to pull him up, my hand meets heat and slickness.

I rip off the jacket he brought for me because he knew I’d be cold, press it hard where the blood comes fastest. It’s on the right side high on his chest probably the lung. Through or lodged, I can’t tell. I only know he’s slipping.

“You’re okay. Look at me. We’re going home soon, remember? You promised. You’re okay. You’re okay, stay with me.”

My hands are red to the wrists, I press down harder, trying to hold his life physically inside his body while words spill out of me in a desperate, useless stream.

Security barrels in, hands grabbing at my shoulders.

“Call a fucking ambulance! Don’t just stand there. Call it!”

They say they have. I don’t hear it. The crowd is frozen, lying on the floor, covering their heads. Glass doors breathe open, and after a while, two paramedics cut straight for us. A guard hooks an arm under mine and drags me back so they can work. I fight him, but my legs don’t exist.

“He’s not breathing. We’re taking him to Mount Sinai” one medic shouts, his voice cutting through the panic.

I try to inhale, but my chest locks up. I can’t fucking breathe. It’s like drowning on dry land. They start compressions on the move, ride the stretcher toward the elevator, one of them climbing on to keep the rhythm.

I run with them. At the doorway, a guy in uniform steps in front of me.

“Please, ma’am, you need to sit. You can’t leave. Everyone here is a witness or a potential suspect.”

His mouth keeps moving, but I hear nothing. My fiancé vanishes behind closing doors, carried on a tide of hands, no sign of life.

My voice comes back sharp and shaking.

“Do I look like a fucking suspect to you?”

He opens his mouth. I don’t let him.

“Or am I a witness? What do you think? Is this blood part of my outfit? Write it down in your tiny notebook: the victim is Noah Mercer. Twenty-four. Six-one. Dark chestnut hair. Light blue eyes. My name is Sophia Moreau, twenty-one. I heard one shot. I don’t know who fired it. We don’t have enemies. If we did, you’d have a different investigation. Now decide. Either let me go to the hospital to meet my fiancé, or put your hands on me and make that your choice.

I take a step toward him, with a voice low enough to hurt.

“I don’t recommend it. With our connections, it’ll be your last day in that badge, and you know it. I didn’t even have to tell you our names because you’ve seen them in the papers and heard them on every radio while stuffing your face with a hot dog on break. You came here knowing exactly who the victim is, so don’t lecture me about rules now.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but my glare cuts him off. For a beat, the only sound is my breath scraping the inside of my ribs. He shifts, then raises a hand, not to stop me, but to ask for a moment.

“Please wait, ma’am,” he says, his tone shifting from authoritative to procedural. He pulls out his radio, his gaze never leaving my face.

“Dispatch, connect me to the lead detective on the Knickerbocker incident,” he says into the receiver.

The silence feels like it's strangling me. Every second that ticks by is a second I'm not with Noah. I could be holding his hand, whispering to him I'm here. Instead, I'm standing in front of a stranger, waiting for a voice on the radio to decide if I get to do that.

Then a voice crackles back from the radio on his shoulder, sounding terrifyingly in control.

“Detective Collins speaking. What you got, Russo?

“Sir, I'm on scene with the victim's fiancée, Sophia Moreau. She's…agitated. Requesting to proceed to the hospital with the victim. I advised her that she's a primary witness, but she's not cooperating.” Russo says, keeping his eyes on me.

There is a quick pause again, then the voice on the radio comes back.

“I'm five minutes out. I'll deal with the scene. Let her go.”