Pain. That's all I can feel, and it's not because I got hurt in the explosion. No, I'm fine physically. Mentally, not so much.
He's dead. That's all that's registering. Ethan's dead, and I'm sitting here, just crying over it. That's all I feel I can do. That's all I can actually do until Connor comes back with clothing.
When a police officer shoots somebody, they have to turn in everything as evidence, so I have to turn in my clothing. I'm guessing for GSR (gun shot residue) and possible blood splatter. I don't understand why they do it, though. I'm pretty sure the missing bullet from the magazine and the one that's lodged into his forehead that matches my gun is enough evidence, but apparently not.
A sudden knock on the door startles me, sounding like explosions from temporary PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).
"Em, it's just me. I have everything that you need," Connor says.
"Come in," I call out, my voice raspy from all the screaming earlier when I was calling for Ethan.
He was in, and his eyes widen when he sees my current state. My knees are brought up to my chest, and I'm only in my bra and panties since they couldn't wait any longer for my clothing. They only had clothing for men, and it didn't fit me, so they sent Connor to get something for me. They offered to get me a blanket to at least feel a little covered, but it's too hot out. My hair's a mess from my fingers being in it as I cried. My face is most likely tear streaked, and my eyes are red from all the crying. All in all, I look terrible.
"I brought clothing, shoes, tissues, a receipt for ice cream and movies that I bought on the way home, and," he says, opening up his arms, "A hug and shoulder to cry on."
I slip on the clothing quickly and collapse into his arms, bawling my eyes out even more. I'm pretty sure I'm starting to get dehydrated, but I can't help it. He holds onto me tightly as I soak his left shoulder with my tears. His hand rubs small circles on my back in an attempt to soothe me, but it's not working.
"Miss Woodhams, it's time for questioning," a man says, walking in and sitting down with his partner.
"It's Agent Woodhams. I'm with the FBI," I say, turning to them while sniffling.
"Mr. McDonough, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he says, ignoring what I said. His partner cocks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't realize this.
"No, he stays. I need him to stay," I say.
"Hey, it's okay. I'll be right outside, okay?" Connor asks, cupping my face and making me look at him. I nod slightly, and he kisses my forehead before leaving. I sit down across from the two detectives that wait with my records.
"So, Miss Woodhams-"
"Agent Woodhams," I correct.
"You said you shot the man. How many shots were fired?"
"There were two shots fired."
"How many are missing from the magazine?"
"Two."
"What we're you originally doing at the bank?" his partner asks. She seems really nice.
"Connor and I went because he needed to get money," I say.
"Why would he get money if he owns a credit card and used it earlier?" the man asks.
"The next store that we were going had broken card readers, and they were waiting for the new shipments," I explain.
"You said that you knew the bank was going to blow up. How?" he then asks.
"The shooter said 'Let's hope your plans don't blow up.' I fit the pieces together, but by the time I did, it was too late. The bank exploded with one of my teammates inside."
