Chapter Thirty
Along the drive to my duplex, I absently looked out of the taxi window. I appreciated how Aram had called Dr. Fulthorpe’s office earlier and his diligence in working on the case. He was going above and beyond. He behaved like a knight in shining armor. I’d seen him act like this before.
I paid the driver and got out. My duplex house appeared quiet, tall, and almost unfamiliar, even though I hadn’t been moved out for very long. I climbed the porch stairs, entered the vestibule, and saw a square box the size of a toaster. There was a typed label with my name on it, but no return address. I unlocked my apartment door and went inside. Everything appeared how I had left it, including the hallway floor that needed a good mopping.
I put my purse and the package down and grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen. The inner blade easily split the taped seam, and I unfolded the flaps. The box was filled with shredded newspaper. I put my hand in, fished around, and found something hard and flat. I pulled out a pink plastic hand mirror with cracks through it. A shard fell out, and I glanced at my cut-up, mosaic-like reflection. I found a note in the box with black marker printing.
How do you like your new face?
I dropped the mirror back into the box as if it was hot coal.
What kind of sick gesture was this?
Anger pulsed at my temples—a switch from being afraid all the time.
Whoever sent the box had mailed it, so they obviously stayed clear of my place. Coward!
Regardless of the louse staying away, I had to make sure my doors and windows weren’t untampered with. As per Patrick’s instructions, I grabbed the gun from my purse. It weighed heavy and solid like a dumbbell, and I cupped my other hand underneath, pointing it downward.
My heart thumped as I inspected each room, window, and the back door. There were no signs of entry or tampering that I could see. At this point, I was more nervous holding a loaded weapon than searching for a potential intruder. I went outside to check the backyard and crept downstairs to the basement. I took the key from underneath the mat but found the door ajar. Debra had been doing laundry down here sometime today before she left. She was probably in a rush and had not clicked the door shut.
Still pissed off, I kicked the door open and gripped the gun handle tighter. I peeked inside. Scant light filtered in, and the basement remained dingy and cluttered—nothing unusual. I entered and switched on the light.
Something moved in the back of the room, by a stack of plastic storage bins. That was no spider or centipede.
My heart picked up to a turbo pace, and pumping blood whooshed in my ears. Should I turn and run? But my feet wouldn’t move. I lifted my arms and pointed the gun.
“Who’s there?”
There was a dragging sound. Something or someone was behind a stack of boxes. My heart was about to burst from my chest.
“I have a gun!”
“Don’t shoot,” a male voice said.
I panted. My whole body shook. Senses overloaded my brain. I didn’t know what to do. Run. Scream. I curled my finger over the trigger. “Who are you? Why did you leave me that package?”
“Package?”
“Who are you?”
He slowly stood from behind the boxes and held up his hands.
“You’re him!”
His black clothes blended in with the shadows. “I’m not here to hurt you.” His words were weak and slurred. Was he high? He shifted.
“Stay still!”
“Please, let—”
“Stop!” I yelled, but he wouldn’t stand still and swayed forward. I couldn’t let him get any closer, and I fired a warning shot to the far right. The man fell back.
As if someone was squeezing my throat, I struggled to breathe. Had I just shot him? But I hadn’t been aiming at him. The shot should have missed him by a mile. Oh, God! His feet moved, and he groaned. I moved cautiously toward him with my gun still drawn. He held his shoulder with bloody fingers and looked at me with glassy eyes.
“Danger.” The word escaped quietly from his mouth, and he slumped back.
“Oh, God.” I placed the gun on the ground and grabbed a T-shirt from the top of the dryer. I balled it up, but I was terrified to move closer to the man. He was breathing funny, labored, and he appeared to be in rough shape. I stepped closer. When I was in arm’s length, I crouched, watching him the whole time. I bit my lip. I wasn’t a doctor or a nurse. I had chosen to work in a lab because I didn’t want to have patient contact—too squeamish. But here I was, attempting to do first aid. I slowly moved the guy’s cool hand and pushed the cloth onto the wound.
He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Maybe I was hurting him, but I maintained pressure.
I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and struggled to hold it steady as I dialed.
“I need an ambulance,” I said and recited my address.
“What’s the emergency?” the attendant said.
“A man has been shot.”
“Is he conscious?”
The man lay motionless. “I don’t think so.”
“Is he still breathing?”
His chest moved.
“Yes, he’s breathing.”
“Help is on the way. Are you able to apply pressure to the wound?”
“Yes. I am. Please hurry.”
I hung up and dialed Patrick’s number.
“Hey, babe,” he said.
“I shot someone,” I uttered as I looked at the guy’s face. He didn’t seem like a substance misuser. Sobs shook me from the inside out.
“What? Where are you?”
“At my apartment. The basement.”
“Jesus! Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hung up, and the phone jumped out of my hand.
The guy mumbled incoherently again. Clearly seeing his face now, this was the guy who had knocked me down that day. He opened his eyes.
My arm shook from maintaining pressure on the wound. “Who are you?”
“Dave,” he said weakly and seemed completely nonthreatening.
“Dave, hang in there. An ambulance is on the way.”
He closed his eyes.
Blood soaked through the T-shirt, but I kept holding it to the wound. He appeared to be out of it again. Seconds felt like hours. I sniffed. Tears pooled in my unblinking eyes. What had I done?
Finally. Sirens.
Suddenly, time sped up. A couple of male uniformed paramedics entered the basement. Black shiny boots stepped beside me, but I kept pushing on the saturated cloth.
“Hi, I’m Will, and this is my partner, Alex,” the taller attendant said and crouched. He had a crew cut and wore a kind expression that touched my soul. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I shot him,” I said. “He’s an intruder.”
He pulled on gloves. “What’s your name?”
“June. June Harber.”
The other medic, I forgot his name, had a colorful tattoo of an autumn tree on his forearm. I wondered what it signified. He turned his lips up slightly and spoke in a comforting tone. “June, we can take over now.”
“Oh, okay.” I backed away and watched.
Will had already opened his case, removed scissors, and cut away the injured man’s hoodie. He opened a package and applied a compression dressing.
The paramedic with the tattoo jumped in and took a blood pressure reading. “BP’s low. Starting an IV.”
I watched in horror. The real-life horror I’d created. If only this wasn’t real. A bad dream I’d yet to wake from. Please let it not be real.
The door slammed open. Patrick. He came over and put his arms around me. I leaned against him, realizing how shaky my legs were.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.”
He rubbed my back in reassurance. “I’m just going to speak with the attendants.”
The exchange of words barely registered in my head as I looked down. I opened and closed my hand.
“June, can you tell me what happened?” Patrick asked. “What is it?”
“My hand is sticky,” I said.
He looked at my palm and fingers. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
In the bathroom, I pumped a handful of foam onto my bloodstained hands. I scrubbed vigorously and rinsed long after the red bubbles were gone. I thoroughly dried in between my fingers.
Patrick waited patiently and escorted me to the couch. “You’re shaking.”
“Don’t worry. I’m getting used to it,” I said in an attempt at humor.
“Let me make you a tea, and we’ll sit for a bit.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling like I was out of my body.
Soon he returned holding a mug. “There’s no milk. Is black okay, or do you have some powdered creamer?”
“Black is fine,” I said.
More emergency vehicles arrived and flashed outside the front window. Paramedics wheeled the stretcher with Dave on it into the ambulance. I shuddered.
“I bet the neighbors are wondering what happened,” I said.
“Don’t worry about the neighbors. June, was that the man who assaulted you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he is in custody now. And you are safe.”
“Safe.” I took a deep breath. “Am I really?”
“Come here.” He put his arms around me.
“I don’t know why he was here. And why he sent me that box, though he denied it.”
“What box?”
I pointed to the cardboard box on the coffee table.
He looked at the mirror inside but didn’t touch it. “He sent you this?”
“I’m assuming,” I said.
“I’ll submit it for prints,” Patrick said.
A police officer came into the living room. “We removed a few personal items before they took the victim to the hospital.” He glanced at me and then at Patrick.
“It’s okay. She’s helping with the investigation,” Patrick said.
The officer handed Patrick a plastic ziplock bag. Patrick emptied the contents onto the coffee table. A wallet, pill vial, lighter, and my long-lost work ID. My stomach constricted.
“My badge. He had it the whole time. But why was he after me? I never saw him kill anyone.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that. It’ll be in his best interest to cooperate and explain why he did what he did.” Patrick opened the suspect’s wallet and removed his driver’s license. “His name is David Moreno.”
My stomach churned, and bile rose. I bolted for the bathroom and expelled the scant contents of my stomach. I hunched over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I stopped dousing and froze. Water dripped off my skin, and a paralyzing realization seeped through me.
I may have fired a lethal shot.