"She doesn't seem to be able to talk," Caroline said, her voice low and dark. "It looks like someone tried to strangle her."
"Yeah, I noticed." Roger turned around, his skin tingling with the odd impression that someone was watching them. But there was no one in sight.
But then, there hadn't been anyone in sight when he'd heard that first cough, either.
Shoving the gun into his pocket, he stepped to the girl's side and put his arm around her slim waist.
A fair percentage of her weight came onto his arm; she really was in bad shape. He just hoped he wouldn't end up carrying her the rest of the way to the apartment.
He hoped even more that whoever had tried to do this to her wouldn't get to them first.
2
He did not, in fact, end up carrying the girl, but it was a near thing. By the time they reached their building, she was staggering like a drunken tourist, with the two of them supporting nearly her entire weight. The night doorman was nowhere to be seen, and it was all Roger could do to keep her from collapsing as Caroline fished out her keys and let them in.
The elevator was deserted, as was the hallway leading to their sixth-floor apartment. With Caroline again handling the door, Roger maneuvered the girl inside.
"No—the bedroom," Caroline panted as Roger started toward the living room. "She'll be more comfortable there."
"Okay," Roger grunted, changing direction.
They made it to the bedroom and got the girl up onto the bed. She was already asleep as Caroline folded the end of the comforter up to cover her legs. Roger straightened the lapels of his coat across her shoulders, and as he did so his fingers brushed across her shoulder. The material of her tunic felt odd, like some cross between silk and satin.
"She looks so young," Caroline murmured.
"How old do you think she is?" Roger asked. "I was guessing about fifteen."