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caught in the crossfire.
    His pulse slowed enough that he figured he would live to see tomorrow. The ringing on the other end of the phone stopped.
    “This is nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

FOUR
    Shay had worked in an emergency room for three years before transferring to the community center’s small clinic. But no amount of trauma training would help the two lifeless bodies sprawled on the unforgiving cement. The murders—the violence and brutality—went beyond anything she’d seen.
    She stood with Vince just outside the yellow crime scene tape surrounding the Dumpster. People in uniform ducked under the tape in a back-and-forth dance of the police, medical examiner, detectives.
    The metallic smell of blood hung on the humid night air like heavy raindrops weeping for the dead. Someone had killed the college volunteer and the misguided kid who’d tried to rob her. She may have threatened to shoot Kevin during their standoff, but she hadn’t wanted him dead. If she’d disabled him with a shot to the leg, might the noise have run off whoever had been lying in wait? Or would that person have killed her father instead?
    A quick check reassured her that Don stood safe and alive beside his Beemer with a detective.
    The security guard spoke with a local detective while standing next to a trash can in case he vomited again. She and Vince gave their statements to a cop from a gang violence task force.
    The steely eyed cop cradled his PDA in his hand, his name tag reading Officer L. Jaworski, a newbie who tended to stroke his club like some kind of touchstone for good luck. “Which entrance did you use?”
    Vince stepped closer to her. “I entered the front door, followed him as far as the back, then returned to make sure Shay was all right.”
    “Ma’am”—the policeman glanced up from typing notes into his PDA—“did you leave the doors unlocked?”
    “No, I always lock all the doors the minute the center officially closes.”
    “You’re certain?”
    She struggled not to get defensive. These kids made fun of the young cop enough on their own without her showing even a hint of frustration with his bullish tactics. “Positive. Locks are like toys to these kids. Kevin could have easily jimmied the front door.”
    Her eyes traveled back to the dead teen. No one had pulled the ugly machete from his chest. It seemed obscene to leave it there just for evidence photos, even if he was long past feeling pain. “We’ve had at least a dozen break-ins.”
    The young cop nodded while notating. “He probably picked the front lock, then ran out of the back, which left that door unlocked as well. How well do you know the boy?”
    She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the late-night wind blowing in off Lake Erie for a chilly summer night. “I only met him once before—when he came in last week, asking for pain medication. Tonight he said he wanted drugs. His machete leads me to believe he must be a member of the Apocalypse gang.”
    Jaworski eyed Kevin’s chest, the teen’s hoodie gaping wide to expose the wound and his Grim Reaper tattoo sliced down the middle. She pressed a hand to her throat and held back a shiver. She was a nurse, damn it.
    Vince shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders before she could argue. And she would have argued. Already his scent wrapped around her as firmly as the coat.
    “It’s going to be okay, ma’am.” The policeman spoke with that universal “calming” tone she’d often used on hysterical patients, except she wasn’t anywhere near hysterical. “We can only speculate at this point, but if this boy was just after drugs, you’re safe now.”
    She didn’t particularly appreciate the condescension, but she held her peace. She and Jaworski had butted heads in the past. Rumor had it he’d once been put on unpaid leave for beating down a kid.
    Vince stepped closer to the cop, edging his shoulder between the man and Shay. “She’s not safe as