Still, they’d been taught in combat zones to check for proof of death. Gabriel made a tight fist with one hand and then squeezed Harmony’s arm with his other hand. The taut muscles resisted his contractions. He released his fist and squeezed the unbendable arm again. He’d need to ask the paramedics and the coroner to be sure, but he guessed the short fingers tipped with blush pink had lost their grip on life at least six hours ago.

Gabriel grasped Erin’s shoulders. “Come on, baby. Stop it. She’s gone.” He tried to pull her from the body, but Erin jerked away furiously.

“Move!” she shouted. She leaned protectively over Harmony, prepared to begin her count again. He wouldn’t make her go. Wouldn’t make her responsible for another death. “I’ve got to do CPR. I have to save her.” It was her fault. The accusation screamed through her, pounded at her brain. Though she hadn’t any reason to think the body had been left for her to find, the coincidence was harder to trust.

Fear misted around her and mixed memory with now. The body, cold and still. The ache splitting through her head like shrapnel. His body and the gun. The gun in her hand. She tossed it aside and scrambled to him. Nathan was so pale. Was he breathing? She had to save him. She had killed him.

She searched his cold, familiar body, but there was no pulse. No breathing. No life. Only a bloom of red to match the blood dried on her hand. Red flashed and the screams in her head grew deafening. Louder than the thunder. Brighter than the lightning.

“Oh, God, Gabriel! She’s not breathing! Why won’t she breathe? What did I do?” She broke into racking sobs, but no tears fell. Gabriel watched in horror as she seemed to turn inward to a shadowy place where another body waited for her. Over and over, she asked the question: “What did I do?”

Uncertain about how to reach her, or even if he could, he tentatively clasped her shoulder, and behind him, sirens blared. Gabriel’s head shot up at the sound. They’d be here any second, and the police wouldn’t be far behind. His journalist’s eye surveyed the scene. A dead girl, dumped on a street corner at midnight. A broken woman, sobbing out incoherent guilt.

If the police saw Erin in her current state, the odds were good they’d assume the worst. The scared, wild look, the muttered imprecations—these were the stuff of suspicions and good copy. He had to get her away from here. Holding her firmly, he whispered, “Baby, the paramedics are here. We need to go.”