Blood trickled down his wrists, but she’d stopped trying to draw it from him. He stared down at her, into her big brown eyes and, again, hated what he saw. Their luminous depths reflected his doubt and magnified the fact that he was not a killer—no matter that he’d been sure he could do this if the opportunity arose. With a roar of anguish, he released her. Coughing, she scrambled back away from him with her hand to her reddened throat until she hit the wall. Then she settled down and panted, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. He swiped his forearm over his mouth and said in a hoarse voice ravaged with emotion, “You don’t deserve to live.” “Maybe not,” she wheezed out, then she went into another coughing fit. “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that same question more than once.” Her voice sounded reedy and raspy. “Stop it!” he yelled. She held her hand to her throat in a protective gesture. “I know you loved Aileen more than anything. I know her death destroyed you.”
