~
Allery opened her eyes and blinked until her vision cleared. She was
lying on the sofa back at the cottage, bloodied cotton pads discarded in front
of her. Driscoll was slumped at the dining table, a can of beer in one hand and
his forehead pressed into the other. As she sat up, he turned his face towards
her.
"It's not your week, Al."
She stretched her back and rolled her shoulders, wincing at the pull
between her shoulder blades and guessing that was where her newest scar sat. "Two
deaths in as many days," she said. "It's not the best."
Driscoll picked up something from the table and tossed it to her. She
caught it and looked at the little lump of metal as he said, "The bullet
with your name on it."
"I'll add it to the collection," she said dryly. "How
are Nick and Esme?"
Driscoll tapped his fingers on the tabletop and eyed the inside of the
beer can as if looking for the answer. "Alive."
Allery picked up the cotton pads and took them into the kitchen to the
carrier bag they used as a bin. "You sound pissed off," she
commented.
