Wallace coughed, struggling to pull in his breath as the TSP detective slapped icy-cold, hard cuffs around his wrists.
Damn them all.
He damned himself for what he had done.
Tears rushed down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Is Elizabeth ok?”
Her name wasn’t Elizabeth. He knew that. It was Izzie. Izzie, it had to stand for something. Dark eyes were seared into his soul.
The detective yanked him to his feet. “Yeah, you didn’t. You’d better hope to hell that woman lives, pal.” He read Wallace his rights, his voice full of hostility. When he finished, he led Wallace to a waiting patrol car.
Wallace looked into the man’s hazel eyes.
Hazel. Nikkie Jean had hazel eyes like that, too.
Her friend had dark eyes. Like Jennifer’s.
Wallace shook that thought from his head. He was being stupid.
Elizabeth had died at three hours and four minutes old.
He’d almost killed a nurse today, not his daughter. A full-grown, snippy little pixyish nurse named Izzie.
Wallace probably had killed her. She was such a young thing. Asthmatic, and a pretty bad case of it. He’d seen for himself once in the ER when Cherise had sent her home after a particularly nasty attack because of a patient’s perfume. Girl had been covered in hives and wheezing at the same time.
Had he hit her lungs? What would a bullet do to a severe asthma patient? He tried to remember how many times he had pulled the trigger. How many times her body had jerked as the bullets had struck her.
He didn’t remember. He should remember. That was a detail he should remember.
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything.”
“Yeah, right. Like that’s not something I’ve heard before.” The detective shut the door right in his face.
Wallace bowed his head.
What in the hell had he done now?
Jennifer and Reggie would never forgive him for this. He had so many sins on his soul. Why did he keep doing this to himself?