Key West by Stella Cameron Page B

hiccuped.
    “Sonnie,” he said quietly. “Sonnie, can you hear me? It’s Chris Talon. You called me, so I came. Can you hear me, Sonnie?”
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    “I think you’re ill. I’ll call—”
    “No.” She didn’t, as he expected, resume writhing. Instead she grasped the collar of his shirt and tugged. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I dialed the wrong number. I’m not sick at all. I’m just fine. Please put me down and go home. It was a nightmare, that’s all. Just a silly nightmare. You can go—”
    “Hush,” he said. “Hush, Sonnie. It’s okay. I’m not going to call anyone if you don’t want me to. Now I’m going to set you down on the bed. Is that all right?”
    Again she began to pant.
    “On a chair? Do you want to sit on a chair?” He felt her nod and took her to a chair near the windows, put her down, and fumbled to switch on a floor lamp.
    Light burst across the chair. The woman who sat there was bent so far over at the waist that her face rested on her knees. Her pale hair was damp and clung to her head and neck, her too-fragile neck.
    She shook. Chris raised a hand and let it hover over her back. One wrong move and she’d fly at him, and maybe hurt herself—if she hadn’t already hurt herself. He looked rapidly around the room. Apart from the wildly disordered bed, there was no sign of struggle.
    He dropped to his knees and leaned clοse to her to ask, “Was there someone here? Did someone do something to you?”
    Her response was to resume crying, but softly this time. She cried and trembled, and he saw the line of her spine through moist white satin. Α web of shiny, discolored scarring extending from beneath her short left sleeve. Where her collar gaped, the raised welt he’d already noted continued and widened.
    “Help me.”
    Chris held his breath. “Tell me what you need.”
    “Not like this.”
    He frowned. “I don’t understand you.”
    She kept her face down, but pushed her hair back. “Wait for me. Say you won’t go away.”
    “But”—he glanced around again—”where are you going?”
    “Shower,” she murmured.
    “Shower?” He puffed up his cheeks. He was the man who wasn’t ever getting close enough to another woman to be considered involved. He was also the man who had vowed to avoid anything that felt sticky enough to drag him in, to make him care. He was finished with being responsible—for anyone but himself.
    She turned her head enough to peer at him with a swollen, reddened eye, and she put a hand on his shoulder while she pushed to her feet. “Please don’t leave.”
    A wise man would contact that schmuck Romano, as Flynn would call him, and put Sonnie into the hands of someone who was at least some sort of relative. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, maneuvering himself into the chair she vacated. “Maybe you should just go to bed. You’re...you’re not real steady on your feet.”
    Her laugh scaled upward. A vaguely hysterical laugh. “I haven’t been steady on my feet for a long time.” She laughed again, before the sound choked off. “But I’m on my feet, aren’t I? They didn’t...I’ m a miracle.” Raising her arms, she used them like wings and crossed the room with her awkward gait. “I can’t just walk, I can almost fly. One day I’m going to fly. I’m going to fly away where no one will ever he able to catch me again.”
    Chris set his flashlight on a table beside the chair and rubbed a fist over his mouth. The sensation in his gut wasn’t completely new, just all but forgotten. Desperation. Wanting to help, but not knowing how.
    She opened a drawer and pulled something out. Then she went to the door of what must be the bathroom and, just before she went inside, wagged a finger at him and said, “Now, you won’t go away, will you, Chris? You don’t want to be here, but you won’t leave me alone?”
    “I’ll be here. Are you sure you’re up to the shower?”
    “Oh, yes.” Her smile wobbled and