Tucker Lawrence barged into my office and collapsed onto a chair. His lower lip trembled as he blurted out, “Lenora’s been shot.”
Instantly my world turned cold and dark despite sunbeams streaming through the window. My heart began to pound. Usually no one gets past my office manager, Ellen, not even a six-foot-six man with the intimidating posture of a redwood tree. Good thing my next client hadn’t arrived yet.
Dressed in khakis, dark blue silk shirt, and dry-cleaner-perfect linen jacket, Tucker could have been mistaken for a GQ model. His face, framed by a silver-gray beard, had held its handsomeness well for sixty years. He sat inert as if saying the words sucked the strength from his body.
“What? It can’t be.” I covered my gaping mouth with my hand. Stupid response. Like words could change this unthinkable horror.
“One bullet, only one, and it penetrated her right lung as she sat at her desk. She’s alive, but comatose.” Tucker’s breathing came in bursts. “The ER doctor says the oxygen level to her brain was impaired. Lenora lapsed into shock before the paramedics arrived. Even if she survives, her prognosis for recovering normal functioning is poor.” Tucker clenched his fists.
I blinked away tears but couldn’t control the sick feeling in my stomach. I pictured my friend, vivacious, compassionate. When Lenora walked into a room, it lit up like Christmas.
How could she be near death? I shivered and reached for my suit jacket on the back of my chair.
