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Quivering, crying, panting hard, she shuffled backward until her back met the wall, then she slid down in increments, cradling Logan carefully so as not to jar him. When she was finally seated, his long legs sprawled away from them as she gently supported his head in her lap. His eyes were closed and lips slightly parted.

Even though she braced herself before looking, the sight of his wound still sent a shockwave of electric proportions shooting to every nerve in her body, waking the numb sensors with a zap of terror.

“Logan?” Her voice shook. “Logan, please open your eyes.”

Blood pooled from the hole, making the stain on his torn shirt grow bigger. She closed her eyes, prayed not to vomit, and slapped her hand over the area, pressing down hard.

Stanch the blood flow.

He gasped, and his muscles seized. Paige opened her eyes to find his own had opened. Gritting his teeth, he wheezed, “What…where…”

Moaning with relief, Paige kissed his hair, his forehead, the side of his face. “Shh. Don’t talk. Don’t talk. You were shot. You’re going be okay. You’ll be fine.”

Except she could feel warm liquid life ooze between her fingers. He wouldn’t stop bleeding. A chest shot couldn’t be good. Couldn’t be—

“Einstein?” he rasped, trying to look around but immediately falling still with an injured grunt.

“He’s…he’s dead.” Still too afraid to glance Einstein’s way to confirm her own words, she kept her gaze on Logan’s as she stroked his face. “It’s okay now. It’s over. We’re gonna get you help, and everything’s going to be fine.”

The only thing on him he could seem to move was his eyes. He kept shifting them around as if he wanted to assess the situation. Then he stopped, his glazed gaze landing on her face. “But blood makes you woozy.”

Of all the things to say. Of all the things to remind her.

Paige swallowed and gave a quiet nod, refusing to look at her hand pressed against his ribcage. Her stomach was already rebelling, and her head felt heavy. He went briefly out of focus in her vision. She concentrated all her attention on his face, making that the center of her universe.

He looked pale. Pasty pale. And he wasn’t breathing so well.

“I won’t leave you,” she promised, thinking how strange she sound

ed and wondering why she’d said that. People said such odd things in extreme situations. Her thoughts were so weird.

There was so much sweat on Logan’s face.

He covered her hand she was using to bandage his wound as if to comfort her. His fingers felt freezing against her own. “It’s okay,” he slurred. “You can pass out if you need to.”

Paige shook her head, refusing to leave him. Her lashes fluttered as she fought his suggestion.

What sounded like a stampede of clopping boots on concrete invaded her consciousness. She looked up just in time to see half a dozen military-looking men in black combat gear toting long rifles stream into the alley, shouting orders and questions.

“Oh, thank God,” she mumbled dazedly—they were saved—just as the blackness swarmed in and enveloped her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

SHIFTING IN HER SEAT, Paige decided the cushions in a hospital waiting room chair lost all sense of comfort after five hours. She straightened and twisted her spine to work out the kinks while she checked the clock on the wall.

Almost midnight. Thank the Lord. She was ready for this day to be over.

Weary yet wired, she pushed to her feet to pace again. Other worried families of other wounded Granton students had gathered in the same room. But she ignored them.

A cooking show began on the television hanging from the ceiling. Since the thought of food turned her stomach, she climbed onto the chair below the TV and turned the channel…for the tenth time today.

Pushing the next arrow, the next station in line flipped to CNN. Immediately, aerial footage of Granton sprang onto the screen.

“So far, there are six confirmed deaths, including the shooter, and at least two dozen injuries. Lisa, on the scene, has spoken with authorities and—”

Her vision graying at the fringes, Paige stamped the next button again, and no one in the waiting room objected to her hurry. The station landed on a cartoon of a carpenter with talking tools. She left it there.

But six deaths?