Read Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) for Free Online Page B

information was requested or given, but I babbled all the way to his car, where the sight of him slumped over the steering wheel, perfectly still, stopped me. He was alone, apparently abandoned while his friends ran for cover. I was too afraid to confirm it by looking around. If anyone was nearby, particularly with a gun, I didn’t want to know.
    I crouched, hauled open the car’s enormous door, and looked at Marcus’s chest. I thought it was rising and falling.
    “I think he’s alive,” I told the 911 operator. Then I noticed the dark stain on his lap, growing as drips fell from somewhere above. “But he’s not okay. He’s definitely not okay.”

      
    Neither was I, although my discomfort was nothing compared to Marcus’s suffering. I’d never seen so much blood, and the thought of finding its origin was scary. I rose slowly and leaned behind him. Supported by the back of his seat, I peered around to the other side of his face, where a bullet had struck his temple. The open flesh reminded me of the time Sophie cracked her chin on a counter, and the gash looked like cut, raw meat, something my vegetarian brain wasn’t used to. Just like with Sophie, I thought I should cover the wound for both our sakes.
    I didn’t have any spare cloth, and I didn’t think I should waste time checking Marcus’s trunk. I wavered between ripping off my shirt or pants and then had a brainstorm. I’d use my cotton bra. (Socks or underwear seemed unsanitary.) It wasn’t huge, darn it, but it would do. I unhooked the clasp, pulled it through a sleeve, and pressed a B-cup to his head. He moved, and I yelped. His eyes flew open, slid toward me, and closed again. Sirens rang in the distance, and I thanked God. Repeatedly.

      
    It was almost 1 a.m. when my shaking hands turned the deadbolt at home. The night had been everything terrible: scary, shocking, disappointing, sad, disgusting. I flipped on lights for the illusion of warmth as I moved through the foyer, bathroom (where I washed my hands twice), family room, dining room, and kitchen. There was no sign of Kenna, but apparently she’d been busy. Our beer bottles were in the recycling bin. The popcorn bag was trashed next to an empty pint of soy ice cream and a crinkled dark chocolate candy bar wrapper. No foul play here, just a stressed out aerobics instructor with a high metabolism.
    I walked back to the front of the house and heard familiar shuffling. I peeked up and saw Jack clutching Super Teddy on the landing.
    “Mommy?”
    “Yes honey?” I jogged upstairs.
    “Why is Auntie Kenna here?”
    I wanted to pick him up and snuggle, but I hadn’t inspected myself. There might be blood on me. I ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder. “I had to go out sweetie, so she babysat. Where is she?”
    “She was with me because I had a bad dream. Now she’s in Sophie’s room.”
    Poor Kenna. She’d had to play musical beds. No matter what I tried, my kids woke me up with complaints, knowing I was a sucker for sleeping with them, and they disturbed each other in the process. You never knew where anyone would be in the morning. I needed someone to Ferberize me .
    I guided Jack past Sophie’s room, where Kenna and Sophie snoozed on their backs, Sophie’s head in the crook of Kenna’s arm. I tucked him back into bed with assurances that I wasn’t going anywhere else. He drifted off in seconds.
    I took a shower and dumped my clothes in the washer. (My bra didn’t make it home. Hopefully it wouldn’t end up in court as evidence. Talk about being tempted to lie under oath.) Dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, I tapped Kenna’s arm and whispered her name. She rose without disturbing Sophie.
    “What happened?” she rasped. “You didn’t call, and you didn’t answer, either. I was freaking out!”
    “It got a little crazy.”
    Despite the hour, she wanted to hear everything, including what I’d told the cops. Thinking about it nauseated me. I was an honest person. I