Deadly, Calm, and Cold by Susannah Sandlin

Author:Susannah Sandlin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Ten years of the straight life had definitely eroded her skills. Sam stared down the attic opening at Brody, her pulse racing but her body frozen in place. It seemed like forever before he opened his eyes and looked at her. He finally did, but his dark eyes definitely looked dazed. She wasn’t sure his brain had reengaged.

At least he was alive. “Don’t move. I’m coming right down.”

“Uh-huh.”

And he could speak. Well, more like a grunt. It was a start.

She climbed down the ladder, cursing herself for turning into a girl. Once in the attic, she’d used the flashlight she kept in her bag to maneuver the land mines of trunks and old furniture, moving carefully to make sure she didn’t trip over anything and wake Brody. Then the freaking batteries died and she’d been left in the dark.

Her game plan had been to wait until daylight sent enough illumination through the small attic dormer window to find her way back to the entry, let the ladder back down, and hope Brody wasn’t such an early riser that he caught her. In which case she’d have to start making excuses.

No, instead, he’d sneaked up the ladder and flipped on the lights, scaring the crap out of her.

By the time she reached the bottom, he was struggling to sit up, although without much success. “Wait, Brody, let me help.”

She prayed he didn’t have any kind of spinal injury, then slid her arms beneath his shoulders and helped him sit. He wore a pair of loose black running pants with a drawstring at the waist and a gray T-shirt. Make that a gray T-shirt with a bloom of red spreading on his left shoulder. He was bleeding.

“Do you think anything’s broken? Should I call an ambulance?” Did Swineshead even have a hospital? She thought she’d spotted a medical center somewhere in her wandering.

“No ambulance.” Brody’s words slurred. What if he had a concussion? “Help . . . up.”

“Okay, let’s take it slow.” She pulled one of his arms around her shoulders and hoisted while he pushed off the floor with his other arm. They teetered southward a couple of steps, but they finally got him upright and somewhat steady.

“Come on. Your bedroom’s closest.” She started him toward his bedroom door and, after the first couple of steps, was relieved to feel him carrying more of his own weight, his steps surer. He was coming around.

She helped him sit on the edge of his bed, which looked like a couple of gators had rolled around in it. The duvet was crumpled into a fluffy mess and hung halfway onto the floor, and the sheets looked like he’d tried to tie them into a rope ladder.

“What the hell were you doing in the attic?”

Oh yeah, he was coming around all right.

“I was—wait, you’re bleeding. I need to look at that.” The shoulder of his gray T-shirt was a wet, solid red now. “Take off your T-shirt so I can look at it. Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“No.

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