|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Isadora?" Chris stared at D.J.'s still, white face. "Who's Isadora?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She didn't answer, just continued to lay in his lap, too quiet for his comfort. He'd give anything to have her swear at him, call him an idiot, a moron, or even helpless. The patch of blood on her powder-blue blouse glistened in the sun shining through the front window of the truck. Fear lay at the back of his throat, and Chris swallowed against a rush of panic. D.J. needed him now and he wouldn't fail her. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
With extreme care Chris lifted her and removed her jacket. Once the coat was out of the way, he could see the bullet hole in her blouse. He held the jacket up, but couldn't see a bullet hole. She must have been shot back at the hotel when the van ca- |
|
|
|
|
|