The usher arrived—two ushers, and two security guards, and two men in suits, guns flashing under their coats as they loped down the hall. Security? Armed men? What about paramedics? Where was the paramedic? Was there a doctor here? There had to be a doctor in this crowd, all these people, standing around doing nothing while Cliff was—

A hand closed on her arm. She looked to see a red-haired young woman crouching beside her. The same woman she’d almost crashed into earlier. Her husband was off to the side, scanning the crowd. Looking for his wife? No, his gaze touched hers, but moved past.

“Cliff,” Grace whispered. “He’s—he was in the bathroom. I knocked. He’s not—”

She couldn’t finish. As the young woman tugged off her glove and took her hand, genuine anxiety flooded her eyes. The woman opened her mouth to say something, but just then, the bathroom door swung open. Through the crowd, Grace caught a glimpse of a fallen figure and a shock of white hair. She gasped, but the sound came out as a whimper.

She slammed her wheelchair forward, into the legs of the person standing in front of her. The young woman leapt to her feet and started clearing a path. Then someone grabbed her shoulder. She reached to push the hand off.

“Gracie?”

She stopped and, for a moment, couldn’t move. Then slowly, she looked up. Cliff was leaning over her, face tight with concern.

“What happened?” he asked. Then he saw the figure in the bathroom. “Did someone—?”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down to her in an embrace.

“I thought—” she began. “Where were you?”

“The bathroom was locked, so I used the main one. Helluva lineup, too.”

She hugged him again, then looked for the young woman, to thank her, but she was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FOUR

As Jack led me to the foyer, I breathed deeply, struggling to ground myself, but the air seemed so thin I could barely find oxygen. If there was a floor beneath my feet, I couldn’t feel it. The blood roaring in my ears drowned out all sound around me.

I felt…nothing. Numb. Distantly aware of my feet stumbling on the carpet, Jack’s fingers tight around my arm, my hip scraping against the wall, bumping along in a cushion of shock.

I’d failed. In the same building as the killer, less than a hundred feet away, and I hadn’t stopped him.

“Might not have been him,” Jack murmured, lips close to my ear, hand still around my arm, supporting me. “Old guy. Maybe a slip-and-fall. Heart attack.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t know that. We’ll check. But we don’t know.”

“Dollar bill,” I managed to get out. “On the floor.”