Chapter 1
Monday afternoon,
Webb’s Glass Shop
“Fire!” screamed Rachel Rosenberg. She pointed at her twin sister. “Faith started a fire.”
Savannah Webb sniffed the distinctive odor of burning hair. She ran over to Faith’s student bench, grabbing the fire extinguisher on the way. She quickly scanned each twin’s short white hair, which appeared untouched. Faith was near tears but pointed to a pink cashmere sweater that lay in a smoldering heap on the floor behind the metal work stool.
Faith snuffled like a toddler. “I tossed it over there.”
As normal, the twins had been the first students to arrive. Also, as usual, they dressed alike and wore head-to-toe vibrant pink. From pink ballet flats and slacks embroidered with flamingoes, to cotton sweater-sets with flamingos screen-printed on the front. All topped by large flamingo earrings and pink polished nails.
Using two rapid spurts from the extinguisher, Savannah sprayed the burning sweater. Then she stomped on the remains for good measure. She turned to her perennial students, her throat still pulsing from the surge of adrenalin. “Are you all right? Did you get burned?”
“No.” Faith sat very still with her eyes wide, staring at the sodden lump of pink char. “I forgot about the rule banning loose clothing. I got a chill and drew the sweater over my shoulders. My sleeve must have dangled across the flame.” Faith’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I’m sorry.”
The twins were typically aloof, tightly controlled, but friendly. Emotion at this level felt awkward.
Savannah heard the pitch of her voice rise. “What possessed you to turn on the torch? We haven’t started class.”
Faith’s eyes grew even wider. “I just don’t know. It seemed to call to me to turn it on. I couldn’t resist. I’ve never had that happen before.”
Savannah covered her mouth with a hand and pressed her lips together. I’m so relieved they’re okay!
Rachel huffed a great breath and put both hands on her hips. “You’ve always been clumsy. You should have waited for Savannah to tell us exactly how to light the torch. Perhaps this class isn’t such a good idea.”
Savannah put an arm around each twin and drew them into a warm side hug. “Ladies, you know that at Webb’s Glass Shop, a class wouldn’t be complete without you two. You’ve attended every class offered for the last—how many years?”
The twins looked at each other and Rachel shrugged. “It’s been at least five years, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Faith. “We were walking by and noticed the poster in the window offering beginning stained-glass classes and we went right in. You know, of course, that your dad was a wonderful instructor.”
Savannah smiled. “Yes, he was.” She paused for just a second. His loss was still a raw spot. “Now that he’s gone, you’ve been my security blanket and my dear friends. I need you. Don’t decide about the class right now.”
Faith wrung her hands. “But I could have burned the shop down. You might have lost the whole building.” She put her hands over her eyes and began to cry.
“Stop that. I’m well prepared for any little accident. My friend over at Zen Glass Studio says that if there’s not at least one fire a day, he’s not making money. He runs a lot of students through his shop. Close calls are part of the deal.”
Savannah felt her heart pounding and she huffed out a breath. Near accidents caused an aftereffect, but they were far better than a real accident. She felt her confidence drop as she thought of her six beginner students wielding molten glass inches in front of their faces.
Rachel gently pushed Savannah back and folded Faith into her arms. “Don’t fret, sister. It wasn’t a problem. You saw how quickly Savannah put out the fire.”
Faith lowered her hands and gulped a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry.”
Savannah put a hand on each twin’s shoulder. “You both enjoyed the sand-etching class, didn’t you?”
The twins stepped apart, looked at each other and then glanced away.
“Remember that and give flameworking a chance. I won’t hear a word about quitting until you’ve gotten to the end of today’s class.”
“But—” chirped Faith.
Savannah pointed like a teacher. “Back to your workstations.”
Rachel and Faith returned to their work stools. They folded their hands and raised their chins. They looked ready to pay attention to the first lesson in making a glass bead.
Savannah sighed deeply. Her relief that no one had been injured was both personal and calculating. An accident could tarnish the reputation of the family-owned glass shop that she had inherited from her father. Even though her small business was doing well, it would all collapse in the wake of burning the whole building down.
She turned to the other three new students. “This might have been the best unplanned lesson ever. This is not a risk-free art form.” They were wide-eyed and solemn with nodding heads. “I’ll expect your full attention during the safety briefing.”
She scooped up the sodden lump of burned sweater with a dust pan and dumped it into the trash bin. It stood next to the fifty-gallon drum that contained their unusable glass. It was nearly full and would need dumping into the bright blue city recyclables bin in the next day or so.
Today was her first afternoon teaching a workshop in glass-bead creation. The method called flameworking, or sometimes lamp-working, utilized acetylene torches fastened to the front of each table, facing away from the students. The beads were formed by manipulating colored glass rods through the flame.
Safety for the students was always Savannah’s primary worry when working with an open flame, so she had been testing the torches one by one when Faith let the sleeve of her sweater catch fire.
To accommodate her growing student clientele, Savannah had installed all the student workstations in the newly acquired expansion space of Webb’s Glass Shop. She owned the entire building, so when one of her long-term tenants retired and closed their art-supply retail business, she took the opportunity to expand. Luckily, the expanded classroom was adjacent to her current location. Savannah hired contractors to remove the adjoining wall and created a larger student space.
That left two more businesses in her building that still held on to their leases. One was a nail salon and the other a consignment shop. She rarely raised her rent more than two percent a year because loyalty meant so much more to her than risking an empty rental.
Because the flameworking torches needed powerful exhaust fans to remove noxious fumes and expel clouds of glass dust, she had placed the workstations on the back wall facing the alley and had a contractor knock small holes into the outside wall for the fans. The construction work on the six-station teaching space was finished mere minutes before the class began at one o’clock this afternoon.
There was a little space for her personal station, but students brought money in the door, so that work would be finished later. All but one student had shown up early to learn bead-making. They had also gotten an unplanned show and prime example of the dangers of working with an open flame.
The bell over the entry door jangled. “Am I too late?” asked a thirty-something tall woman dressed in muscle-hugging black athletic wear. “Have I missed something important?” Her pale face flushed and a sheen of sweat formed on her brow.
Savannah walked into the display room and led her into the new classroom. “A little, but you’re in good time.” Savannah shook her head. “We’ve had a bit of delay getting started. Anyway, you’re the last one to arrive, so our class is complete. If you could take a seat at the end workstation, we can all make our introductions. After that I’ll make some important safety and housekeeping announcements, and then we’ll begin.”
Savannah pointed to the late-arriving student. “Welcome. We’ll start introductions with you. Give us your name, where you live, and what you want to get out of this class.”
The pale lady looked extremely uncomfortable at the notion of speaking. She cleared her throat not once, but three times. “I’m Myla Katherine Nedra, but everyone calls me Myla Kay. I’m a seasonal resident from Ann Arbor, Michigan. I’m recently widowed, and I couldn’t stomach the idea of a cold winter in our big house all alone, so I rented one of the tiny bungalow cottages in a courtyard within a few blocks of here. This class should be a great distraction and will hopefully be a way to get to know the neighborhood.”
Savannah raised her eyebrows. That’s an unusual way to introduce yourself—recently widowed. Most women would be reluctant to admit that so quickly. She’s confident.
“Thank you, Myla Kay. You must be in that street of tiny houses near my house. I live right down the block from you. I find the tiny-house zone in the Kenwood Historic Neighborhood fascinating, although I could never live in one. Which one did you rent?”
“I chose the converted Blue Bird school bus.”
Savannah bobbed her head. “I walked through that one while I was at the Tiny Home Festival last year. The bus has a very colorful history. Remind me to tell you about it.”
She’s awfully young to be a widow.
Savannah looked toward the next student. He adjusted the collar of his green Columbia fishing shirt and stood in front of his work stool. He said in a booming voice, “My name is Lonnie McCarthy. I’m from Pittsburgh. My wife and I are staying downtown with friends for a few weeks and I have some basic experience with making stained glass. I want to present my wife with some handmade beads for her fancy Pandora bracelet.” He gave everyone a politician’s wide-toothed smile and sat.
The third student, with brown hair framing soft brown-eyes, looked as gawky as her sixteen years of age. She popped up before Savannah could signal her turn. “Hi, I’m Patricia Karn.” Her voice was high and thin, exactly like her teenage figure. “I’m here from Indian Rocks Beach. I’m a native Floridian but my parents are from Akron, Ohio. I want to make beads as Christmas gifts to send up to my six cousins up North. I’m home schooled and this class will fulfill my art elective credits for the year.”
“Thanks, Patricia. Did you bring your signed release?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Patricia pulled a folded slip of paper from her back pocket and handed it over.
The next student sat until Savannah nodded toward him. He was white-haired with a close-clipped beard and mustache. He gripped the back of the chair and stood, favoring one knee. Even at his full height, he was a little stooped. “I’m Herbert Klug.” He gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “I’m here because my wife wants me out of the house.”
Everyone laughed. His timing and stage presence reminded Savannah of a stand-up comedian.
He smiled at the reaction. “No, I’m kidding. That’s not exactly true. I’m a retired research professor. My lab was downtown at the Bayboro Campus of the University of South Florida.” His well-modulated voice had everyone’s attention. “Although I haven’t created anything in glass as an artist, I have certainly made plenty of glass pipettes for my lab. This is my chance to explore flameworking as an artist.” He maneuvered cautiously back onto his work stool.
He must have been an excellent instructor. Edward had been prodding Savannah to hire more staff. Edward was still coming to grips with his new role as her fiancé. He was cautious about giving her advice about her business, but felt compelled to solve her tendency to overcommit, quickly followed by overworking. However, just because he’s a research professor doesn’t mean he’ll have an affinity for teaching civilians. I’ll see how he survives the chaos of the class.
Next were Faith and Rachel. Savannah knew they were more than eighty years old, but their looks and actions declared middle-sixties. The twins deftly avoided all discussions about their age. They stood up together. “Hello, everyone. I’m Rachel Rosenberg and, obviously, this is my twin sister, Faith.”
“We’ve been coming to all of the Webb’s Glass Shop classes for years,” said Faith.
Savannah stepped between them and put an arm around each twin. “Webb’s Glass Shop, like any artistic enterprise, needs patrons. These two ladies have been attending classes for years and knew my father, who started this business from nothing. Without this level of support, the arts have no chance to survive.” She turned her head to each twin. “I appreciate your patronage more than I can say.”
“Yes.” Rachel looked at Savannah. “We find the challenge of learning new skills keeps us young.”
They sat down with their backs to the workstations and Savannah felt all eyes upon her.
She had taken the opportunity to brush up on her flameworking skills at the nearby Zen Glass Studio. She wasn’t like her dad, in that she was open to using any resource available to make her classes the best they could be. He had been more of an “if it isn’t available here, it isn’t worth having” management style.
The Zen studio was less than a mile away and, like hers, was a small shop that catered to beginning glass students and offered work space and time for advanced students. The owner, Josh Poll, cheerfully advised Savannah about how to set up the student work space along with a demonstration workbench.
Josh had been turning away students and felt another teaching venue would be good for both Webb’s Glass Shop and Zen Glass Studio. There were enough snowbirds and retirees seeking adult education or lifestyle classes to keep the arts-based businesses solvent. It was another example of how the business owners supported each other. They were still competitors, but all boats rise on an incoming tide.
“Thanks, everyone. First things first. I need to cover the safety issues. It is important to wear formfitting clothing, pinned-back hair and closed-toe shoes. Glass does occasionally drop onto the floor—but mostly it will stay on your work surface. If it does drop on the rubber mats, it will flame up. Let me handle it. I’ll pick up the glass with pliers and stamp on the flames. It cools surprisingly quickly, but don’t touch it.” She lowered her head a touch and winked at Faith. “No loose sweaters on the shoulders or jackets tied around the waist. Understood?”
The students nodded their agreement.
“Okay, then. Everyone, follow me.”
Savannah walked over to the back door, went outside and held the door for everyone to follow. She pointed to the newly installed tanks that sat in a fenced-in enclosure. She pulled out a key and unlocked the gate.
“This is the butane tank—just like the ones you might use for your barbecue grill.” She pointed to the controls. “Here’s the knob to turn off the gas. I will probably never ask you to do this, but if I ask—turn the knob to the right. Remember this phrase: Righty tighty, lefty loosey. It’s a memory trick for: Turn right for OFF and turn left for ON. That’s universal. Okay, back inside.”
She led everyone to a stainless-steel container not far from the end of the long workbench. There was a workstation space on the far-left side of the back wall that Savannah planned to use as her own, so it had a higher quality torch and more advanced tools.
“This is the control for the oxygen tank. The same thing applies—Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”
“Question,” said Herbert. “I thought we would be using those portable torches that you can get at the hardware store.”
“Those don’t get hot enough long enough for us to work the glass. We need our temperatures to be at least 4500 degrees. Mixing the butane with oxygen gets us there. Good question. What did you use in your lab?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Since I was only modifying thin lab glass, I just used the Bunsen burners that were already in the lab.”
“We need more heat since we’re going to combine solid glass rods,” said Savannah. “Now for the first aid salve you’re most likely to use more than anything else. Let me introduce you to Bernie the aloe plant.” On a plant stand against the right-hand wall was a moldy clay pot that contained a strange plant with ugly spikes sticking out in every direction. “If you get a slight burn, pluck off a stem, split it open, and slather the juice all over the burn. It will seal it so you can keep on working. Obviously, if you get a bad burn, we’ll take further action, but for minor ones, Bernie is your friend.”
Patricia stiffened. “I know this sounds silly, but I’ve never worked with fire before. I’m actually very nervous.”
Herbert learned over and said in a low voice, “Don’t let that stop you. You need practice in order to get comfortable.” He quickly glanced over to Savannah and then straightened. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not my place to answer questions. Force of habit, I’m afraid.”
“But you’re completely right.” Savannah noted his deft handling of Patricia’s fears. “It’s perfectly normal to be cautious, but not to the point where you don’t learn. I spent my first weeks near Seattle at Pilchuck Glass School making paperweights. I made so many I could do them in my sleep.”
Patricia raised her hand. “Did you meet the famous Chihuly? I love his work! I practically haunt his museum downtown.”
Savannah raised her eyebrows. “We’re very lucky he decided to put a museum here. Anyway, the demand for his time was incredible, so he couldn’t come near the beginning studio, but I met him later when I was one of the senior apprentices. He radiated amazing charisma—you couldn’t help hanging on his every word.” She paused, remembering her apprentice days.
“Gosh,” said Patricia. “I’ve never met anyone who worked with him.”
“It was the experience of a lifetime.” Savannah felt a dreamy smile softening her jaw. She shook her head a bit. “Anyway, back to our class. Let’s begin by becoming familiar with the tools lying on your workstation.”
Each student’s work area was set up with the tools they would need for the class. Savannah then described the names of the tools laid out neatly on each side of the torch. She explained how to use the tweezers, a graphite marver, a mosaic cutter, a bottle of bead release, a tungsten bead reamer, a rod rest for the glass rods, and a mandrel for holding the bead as it was formed.
She held a pair of bright blue glasses up for everyone to see. “Here’s your most important safety equipment. These are didymium glasses that not only protect your eyes, but they filter out the orange sodium flare, so you can see how to manipulate the molten glass.”
She walked over to her teaching workstation. “This is your primary tool for flameworking. It’s called a hothead torch, which provides as big a flame as you can get with this style torch. The bigger the flame, the more BTUs and the faster you can work the glass.
“Your torch has two nozzles. Each nozzle has a dial for butane and a dial for oxygen. The small nozzle on top is for light work with the smaller rods of glass that don’t require maximum temperature. The second nozzle right underneath the small one is for larger rods of glass as well as for your finishing steps—we’ll talk about those later.
“To light your torch, you can use either a striker”—she held it up and made sparks by compressing the handles—“or a match.” She held up a small box of wooden matches. “Most students find it easier to simply use a match or cigarette lighter.” Savannah shot a glance at the Rosenberg sisters and made sure she had their full attention. She selected a match and lit one using the grit panel on the side of the box. “Turn the knob slightly to the left to start the flow of gas—remember lefty loosey—then hold the match right against the torch.” The torch whooshed a bright orange flame.
Savannah blew out the match. “Now you turn on the oxygen. You want to adjust the two so that the flame is steady.” Savannah turned the flame down until it was a steady pure blue. “Now go ahead and try it at your station.”
Everyone except Herbert used matches. He expertly clicked the striker so that it sputtered huge sparks, lit his torch, and adjusted the oxygen and butane knobs to achieve a perfectly steady blue flame.
Not his first rodeo.
Savannah adjusted the gas-flow knobs on each student’s torch so everyone had an efficient setting. Both Rachel and Faith overreacted to the sweater fire to the point that their flames were barely lit at all.
“Ladies, you couldn’t toast a marshmallow on those flames.” She adjusted their torches. “Can you hear the difference between a bad mix of air and butane and a good one? This is a good one.” Then she increased the oxygen and the torch responded with a loud rushing sound. “This is a bad mix.” She readjusted the torch so that if fell nearly silent. “Good. I want everyone to practice adjusting your torch.”
After a few minutes, even the twins seemed more confident with the adjustment knobs on their torches. “Okay, now we’re ready to start. The process we need to practice first is to punty up a clear glass rod with a colored rod. We will be repeating this process many times, so the more practice the better. It is not fun to be working on a piece and have the colored glass fall off the punty.”
Savannah held up a rod of clear class about twelve inches long and a short three-inch rod of lime-green glass. “Punty is the name for any piece of material that is used to hold and manipulate glass. It’s also used as a verb, such as ‘punty this piece of glass.’ ” She demonstrated the steps required to join a single-color rod to a clear rod. “The trick here is to heat both glass rods to the same temperature, so they will form a good join.”
Savannah explained each step in the basic process of making a glass medallion with an attached glass loop. After she showed the finished medallion to each student, she slipped the whole business into an upright kiln to keep it warm. The students caught up by selecting their medallion colors. Then they puntied each color onto clear rods.
“How hot does the glass get while in the flame?” asked Patricia.
“Good question,” said Savannah. “Glass begins to melt at six- to eight-hundred degrees. It varies with thickness, of course. As you get more experienced with manipulating the hot glass, you’ll be able to tell its temperature just by looking at it.”
The class progressed, with Savannah working with each student on their first attempt at a medallion. Except for Herbert. He crafted a perfectly symmetrical oval with four swirls of colored glass in a pattern. “Wow. That’s gorgeous. Your science-lab experience is serving you well.”
He ducked his head a bit. “I have to confess. I’ve tried my hand at the creative side of glasswork before, but I became fascinated with all the demonstrations you can find on the internet. However, I’m delighted by how much more I retain with in-person instruction.”
Myla Kay formed her first medallion using a Salvador Dali–like selection of vivid high-contrast colors—yellow, azure, lime, and royal purple.
“Well done, Myla Kay,” said Savannah. “That was risky. Sometimes a high contrast selection of colors will result in a horrible muddy mixture, but yours is terrific. Beautiful!”
Myla Kay smiled broadly. “I have some experience with color. I like to paint. Actually, I like to paint a lot.”
“Well, that explains your sense of color. Good job.”
There were no accidents, and at the end of the class each student left behind a newly formed glass medallion annealing in the kiln. As the Rosenberg twins—always first to arrive, and last to leave—wished her a good day and walked out the door, Savannah programmed the kiln to start the cooldown cycle in four hours from now. The kiln would do its work after hours. When she first took over the glass shop, she’d felt uneasy leaving the kilns powered on. Not anymore. The kiln was absolutely safe, and it rested on fire-proof bricks, which were even safer.
Amanda Blake, office manager and instructor for Beginning Stained Glass, walked into the flameworking classroom. “So, how was the first day of bead-making class?” Amanda’s voice sounded flat and toneless.
Savannah glanced up at her, concerned. “Exhausting, but exciting. I can’t believe that two hours have flown by! Are you on your way to see your mother?” Savannah noted the somber outfit. A zaftig woman of size, Amanda’s appearance typically displayed her bohemian side. Today she wore muted shades of beige. Her normally neon spiked hair was brushed down into a soft, wavy, fawn-like color.
“I did the Monday inventory of supplies and got everything ready for day two of the stained-glass class. The new students are great. They’re attentive and calm—perfect. I’ll help you clean up here and then push off for an evening of reading to Mom.”
Without another word, Savannah walked over and folded Amanda into a huge hug. Amanda reacted by stiffening, then relaxed into the comforting gesture. In a flash, she was sobbing like a toddler. Poor dear. Savannah gave her a light squeeze and rubbed her back in small, soothing circles.
After several long moments, following a whole-body shudder, Amanda stepped back and snuffled. “Thanks for the attack hug. I’m going through an emotional roller coaster. I’m either stiff and stoic or a crying waterspout. I don’t know how I would cope with the hospice visits without you, Edward, the Rosenberg twins, and even young Jacob giving me the support I need.”
Savannah nodded. Jacob was her late father’s final trainee in a long line of apprentices who benefited from learning to make glass art. His parents had purchased his adorable service beagle, Suzy, to let others know by a special bark if Jacob began to have an anxiety attack. She also soothed him with her calm presence. If left alone, he could escalate into a full-blown asthmatic crisis. The inhaler was stowed in the pocket of Suzy’s blue service pack. “We’re all here for you.” Savannah continued to rub Amanda’s back. “We’ve weathered through a few crises together.”
“As your investigative posse—we have certainly made a difference.”
“What are you reading to her?”
“You’re not going to believe this. She looks like she would be the perfect candidate for listening to a cozy mystery with a magical cat who solves the murders. But, nope. She is having me read a Tim Dorsey thriller.”
“Which one?”
“The Pope of Palm Beach, the newest installment of the Serge Storm series. When she still had good mobility, she never missed his signings down at Haslam’s Book Store. I think his books keep her wondering what horrible thing he will make happen next.”
Savannah shook her head and grinned. “You can’t fault her logic. I didn’t sleep properly for a week after I read that one. I’ll stop by tomorrow night and read to her for a while.”
Amanda beamed. “She would love that. Oh, I nearly forgot. You can bring Rooney. The nurses love fur baby visits. His big, cuddly dog energy would liven up the evening for everyone.”
Savannah imagined the disruption her yearling Weimaraner would bring to the peaceful facility for hospice patients who didn’t have a home setup for receiving palliative care. On the other hand, the staff were experts in end-of-life experiences. They would know right away if his behavior was appropriate. “I’ll think about it. If he’s in a calm mood—absolutely.”
“Anyway, if there’s nothing else, I’m off.” Amanda hiked her patchwork hobo handbag onto her shoulder and left by the back door.
The over-the-door bell sounded a single ting. Eighteen-year-old Jacob Underwood entered the front door and let his service dog, Suzy, lead the way into the shop. Jacob had a strange knack for keeping the bell practically silent when arriving. Savannah thought it was a personal challenge he was playing against himself.
He walked into the flameworking studio and handed Savannah a black journal. He didn’t look her in the eye as he said, “Webb’s Studio needs more supplies.” Jacob’s condition used to be called Asperger’s syndrome, but after the recently revised medical definition, he was medically classified as a high-functioning autistic.
“Thanks, Jacob. I appreciate that you ask each artist what supplies they want for their works in progress. This is very good practice in communicating with clients.”
Savannah had recently promoted Jacob to the position of journeyman in charge of Webb’s Studio. It was a new venture housed in a converted warehouse with by-the-month rental work spaces for intermediate and advanced students.
“I’ll just gather the requested supplies tonight and drop them off at the studio for you to pass out tomorrow.” Savannah looked at Jacob to be sure that he understood.
He nodded again and picked up Suzy, then managed to get out the front door without the bell making a single sound.
She chuckled. Looks like he won the game today. Jacob 1, doorbell 42 million.
As Savannah entered the final key to shut down the cash register, she heard a sharp yelp directly in front of Webb’s Glass Shop, followed by a sickening thud. Next, she heard squealing tires and then a roaring engine. Out the front window, she glimpsed a white car flying down the street.
Jacob! Please don’t let it be Jacob. Savannah bolted out, nearly tearing the bell off the door.
Jacob stood outside on the sidewalk as stiff as the tinman from Wizard of Oz. He let out a keening scream, which was overlaid by a howl from Suzy.
Jacob abruptly stopped screaming. Suzy went silent as well.
As Savannah moved to stand in front of him, a yard away, a tsunami of relief rushed over her. She quietly said his name. She was careful not to touch him. A critical precaution to reduce the chances of Jacob having a panic attack.
Savannah noticed that Suzy appeared calm, so Jacob didn’t need his inhaler. He stared down the street without acknowledging her presence. She made no attempt to get his attention.
Savannah followed his gaze out on the street. Crumpled faceup near the curb lay a woman dressed in khaki trousers and a white Queen’s Head Pub logo shirt.
“Nicole!” Savannah shrieked. Nicole was completely unresponsive. Not even an eyelash fluttered.
Terrified, Savannah became hypersensitive to every sound around her. The murmur of onlookers, the slowing of traffic in the street, the mockingbird singing nearby.
Nicole was a good friend. She worked in the pub right next door, owned by Savannah’s fiancé, Edward.
Shaking herself into action, Savannah placed two fingers on Nicole’s throat. She detected an irregular heartbeat. It was barely noticeable, and her infrequent breaths were shallow.
She pulled back Nicole’s thick blond hair to reveal heavy-lidded eyes. There were streaks of road filth down her face and her legs didn’t line up properly. From the back of her head, a terrible wound leaked a small stream of blood, which made its way to the curb.
This is bad.
“Call 911,” she yelled to the gathering crowd of bystanders, pointing at a balding man with his cell phone already in hand. “Hurry! She’s still alive.”
The man dialed.
A sour taste hit the back of Savannah’s throat. She knew better than to try to move a victim of trauma. Instead, she gathered Nicole’s limp and clammy hand in both of hers. “Nicole, can you hear me? Stay with me, girl. Help is coming.”