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.