Victor turned and walked toward the security desk near the entrance.

I went down the hallway to find the kit.

The bathroom was marble and clean, smelling faintly of cedar.

I found the black plastic first-aid box and carried it back to the living room.

Arthur had managed to slide his heavy coat off his shoulders.

It lay discarded on the floor, stained with blood.

He was working on the buttons of his white dress shirt with his left hand.

His right arm hung stiffly at his side.

“Let me,” I said, kneeling on the floor in front of him.

I reached out and began unbuttoning his shirt.

My fingers brushed against his chest, and I felt him tense.

“I can manage, Kate,” he said, his voice quiet in the empty room.

“You’re bleeding on a very expensive couch,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

I peeled the wet, stained fabric of his shirt away from his right shoulder.

The wound was a jagged tear near the top of his shoulder blade.

A piece of glass from the shattered window had sliced through his clothing.