Shut up. I know what you're thinking. Don't say it. Don't think it. Don't even goddamn think about thinking it.
I'm not thinking about it. Certainly not. Not thinking about the bomb, or the stupid goddamn phone call making stupid goddamn threats, and I am definitely not thinking about Mendrick with a huge great bloody enormous goddamn knife sticking out of him.
Randall went with Mendrick to the hospital, because, for some unfathomable reason that I just don't get, the paramedics decided he was less likely to murder someone than me.
Yeah, okay, they were probably right. But still.
I left Alannah in the office. She was trying out all the swivel-chairs in the building.
I, on the other hand, am doing something useful. Mainly because I didn't think I could stand another minute in that goddamn building without possibly committing suicide.
So I've decided to stick my head in the lion's jaws. As it were.
Who organised the murder of Christian Bell, the zookeeper?
Who deleted the only evidence that it was murder, and threatened my and David's lives?
Who attacked my goddamn house in the middle of the goddamn night?
Who kidnapped Rhonda and Lindsay Lawrence?
Who just strapped a bomb to a little girl and somehow managed to get her to stick a goddamn enormous knife in David?
Huh. If you haven't worked that out by now, then you're even more of a goddamn idiot than I gave you credit for.