Her guess? “What—”
“How much do you remember?” Santo went on. “Dying?”
The questions felt overwhelming. Answering them, impossible. She shifted, realizing only then that she wore his leather jacket. It was big and warm, the sleeves long enough to cover her hands. It held the scent of the man. Clean. Masculine. Distracting.
“Do you remember dying, Roxanne?” he repeated patiently.
“I remember being shot.”
“Not the same thing,” he replied.
His indifference stung, though there was nothing apathetic in his expression. His gaze was so intense that she felt it. She studied his face, trying to get a read on what he was thinking. He gazed back implacably. He could be plotting a revolution or thinking about cheese for all she could tell.
“Why am I not in a hospital?” she asked.
“It seemed unnecessary under the circumstances.”
“You can’t die, Roxanne,” he said as if speaking to a child.
“That’s a lie. Of course I can.”
His smile mocked her, but he didn’t argue.
“Is that what this is about?”
“This?” he said.
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