long and full. It fell over the edge of the table in a mass of corkscrew curls. She looked like an advertisement for Ivory soap.
“Who shot her?” She raised her eyes to the younger of the two paramedics, trying to get her mind off her own discomfort.
The paramedic’s face was as white as the patient’s, his brown eyes wide. “She was a volunteer at the Battered Women’s Shelter in Manteo,” he said. “Some guy came in, threatening his wife and kid, and this lady got in the way.”
The Battered Women’s Shelter. Olivia felt a spasm of pain in her own chest. She had to force herself to ask the next question. “Does anyone know her name?”
“Annie somebody,” said the paramedic. “O’Brien. O’Something.”
“O’Neill,” Olivia whispered, so quietly none of them heard her. She let her eyes run over the body in front of her, over the creamy white, freckled breasts, the softly sloping waistline. She closed her eyes. Her shoulder burned; the tips of her fingers were numb. She was no longer certain they were in exactly the right place. She lifted her eyes back to the monitor. She would be able to tell by any change in the heartbeat if her fingers were slipping.
Had it only been a month since Paul had written that article for Seascape Magazine? She remembered the pictures of the stained glass in Annie Chase O’Neill’s studio. The women in silk, the sleek blue heron, the sunset on the sound. Paul had changed after that story. Everything had changed.
Mike Shelley arrived and she saw in his dark eyes his shock at the scene. But he scrubbed quickly and was at her side in seconds. “Where’s Jonathan?” he asked.
“He thought she should go up and I thought she should stay. So he left to call the helicopter and he hasn’t come back.”
Mike threaded the curved needle with his gloved hands. “Maybe she should have gone up.” He spoke very quietly, very softly, his lips close to her ear. “This way her blood’s on your hands.”
Olivia’s eyes stung. Had she made the wrong decision? No, this woman would never have survived the trip. Never.
Mike had to work around her fingers. If she moved just a fraction of an inch, the blood poured from the bullet holes. The pain in Olivia’s shoulder became a steady fire and the shaking in her legs spread to the rest of her body. Still she held her position while Mike slipped a tiny piece of felt beneath her thumb and stitched it into place. But the exit hole was not so easy to close. It was large and nearly impossible to reach without damaging the heart in the process.
She watched the lines deepen in Mike’s forehead as he struggled with the needle.
“Please, Mike,” she whispered.
He finally shook his head. The felt refused to hold, and the blood seeped, then poured from the back of the heart. Olivia felt the heat of it on her fingers as the green line of the monitor shivered and flattened, and the room grew hushed with failure.
For a moment no one moved. No one spoke. Olivia could hear Mike’s breathing, rapid and deep, keeping time with her own. She straightened up slowly, gritting her teeth against the pain in her back, and looked at Kathy. “Is any of her family here?”
Kathy nodded. “Yes, and we called Kevin in. He’s with them in the little waiting room.” “I’ll tell them,” Mike said.
Olivia shook her head. “I should do it. I was with her from the start.” She turned and started walking toward the door.
“Whoa.” Mike caught her arm. “Better change first.”
She looked down at her blood-soaked scrubs and felt a ripple of doubt. She was not thinking clearly.
She changed in the lounge and then walked to the small, private waiting room. Through the high window in the hallway she caught a glimpse of snowflakes dancing in the darkness. She wished she could step outside for a second. Her muscles still burned. And she hated what lay ahead of her. She hoped Kevin Rickert, the social worker, had prepared them for what she had to say.
Kevin looked relieved to see her. “This is Dr. Simon,” he said.
There were three of them—a girl about thirteen who looked strikingly like the woman she had just left on the table, a boy a few years older. And a man. Annie’s husband, Alec O’Neill. He was dark-haired, tall and thin, with an athletic tightness to his body. He wore jeans and a blue sweater, and he held his hand toward her, tentatively, his pale blue eyes asking her what his future held.
She shook his hand quickly. “Mr. O’Neill.” She would make the words come out very slowly. “I’m so sorry. The bullet went straight through her heart. The damage was too extensive.”
There was still hope in his eyes. It was always that way. Until you said it clearly, until you stopped mincing words, that hope would be there. The son understood, though. He looked like a younger version of his father—the same black hair, striking pale blue eyes beneath dark brows. He turned to face the wall, his shoulders heaving, although he made no sound.
“Do you understand what Dr. Simon is saying?” Kevin asked.
The man stared at her. “Are you saying Annie’s dead?”
Olivia nodded. “I’m sorry. We worked on her for over an hour but there was …”
“No!” The girl threw herself at Olivia, knocking her into the wooden arm of one of the chairs. She flailed at her with closed fists, but Kevin wrapped his arms around her from behind before she could cause any real harm. “She can’t be dead!” the girl screamed. “There wasn’t any blood.”
Alec O’Neill extracted the girl from Kevin’s grip and pulled her into a hug. “Shh, Lacey.”
Olivia regained her balance and set a hand on the girl’s back. How did she know about the blood? “She was bleeding inside, honey,” Olivia said.
The girl pushed Olivia’s arm away. “Don’t call me honey.”
Alec O’Neill pulled Lacey closer to him and she began to weep against his chest. Olivia looked at Kevin. She felt helpless.
“I’ll stay with them,” Kevin said.
Olivia walked to the door but turned back to face the family once more. “If you have any questions, please call me.”
Alec O’Neill looked across the room at her and Olivia stood fast, forcing herself to face the hurt in his eyes. She’d taken something from him. She needed to give him something back.
“She was very beautiful,” she said.
Jonathan and the helicopter pilot were standing in the hallway, and she had to pass them to get to her office.
“Nice job,” Jonathan said, his tone mocking.
She ignored him and walked into her office, where she cranked open her windows to let in the cold air. The snow was still falling, so silently that when she held her breath she could hear the thunder of the ocean two blocks away.
After a while, Kevin poked his head in her door. “You okay, Olivia?”
She turned away from the window, sat
