Page 5 of Blossoming Dahlia

I got through the remaining files I’d brought with me, spreading them out around me as I scribbled thoughts down on my notepad. I didn’t know how long I’d been working when I heard my phone buzz, and I dug frantically through the piles of papers to find it. “Cross here,” I answered, not bothering to check who it was, since the only person who ever called me was Hunter.

“Find anything?” he asked, and I looked up to make sure he wasn’t somehow watching me.

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” I replied, feeling frustrated. “How’s it going on your end?” I could hear several voices in the background, so he must’ve stepped out into the hall to take the call.

“Ms. Porter woke up and is spitting mad,” he informed me, and that made me pause. “She kicked me out of the room and said she’d only speak to ‘the tall one’,” he sounded thoroughly amused, but I wasn’t. We weren’t going to get anywhere if she didn’t talk to us, and Hunter was the far more personable one; if she wouldn’t talk to him, what the hell was I supposed to do?

“Damn, okay, I’ll be right there.” I sighed, and hung up, hastily gathering up the papers I’d spread out all over the room andthrowing on a clean shirt and tie. I was almost regretting not using this time to sleep, but I figured there would be some form of coffee back at the hospital.

When I got back to the hospital, I found Hunter standing outside the door to Ms. Porter’s room, chatting with the officer standing guard. As I approached I could hear raised voices from inside the room, and I cocked my eyebrow as I looked at Hunter. “Dahlia’s got a lot of fire in her,” he told me, a smile playing on his lips. “She woke up and tore strips off me, then kicked me out. I tried to stop the plastic surgeon from going in there until you got here, but he wouldn’t listen. A nurse is in there trying to mediate, but it’s not going well,” he explained, and I frowned. There were many types of reactions to the kind of trauma she’d experienced, but this one was a first for me.

“I’ll go in and try to… help I guess?” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and knocked on the door before walking in. Everyone turned to look at me, as I sized up the situation quickly. The plastic surgeon was standing beside Dahlia’s bed, hands on his hips and looking thoroughly antagonistic, while the nurse Hunter had mentioned was on the other side of the bed, holding a syringe full of what I assumed was more sedatives. Dahlia looked furious, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed from yelling. I noticed that she was holding her arm at a strange angle, her hand clutched to her chest. I realized that blood was drippingdown her arm from a fresh injury somewhere on her hand and surprised myself when a sharp burst of rage flared in my chest.

“What is the problem here?” I demanded, raising my voice to an authoritative level that I’d heard Hunter use when he was trying to command a room.

“Like I was trying to tell Ms. Porter here, I need to check on her wounds to make sure the stitches are healing correctly,” the surgeon told me, sounding irate. “She got hysterical, so I suggested we give her something to calm her down, and then she ripped the IV out of her hand,” he snapped. I watched Dahlia’s face as he spoke, and she held her chin up defiantly as if she was daring me to tell her off. Instead, I did what I always did when I was uncomfortable in a situation, I made things worse.

“Did you know that out of any profession, surgery attracts the highest amount of individuals with sociopathic traits?” I offered, and I was met with stunned silence. The plastic surgeon was gaping at me and managed to recover first.

“Excuse me? Are you calling me a sociopath?” he snapped, and I glanced at Dahlia’s face to gauge her reaction. She had a bewildered look on her face, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Of course not,” I replied, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Sociopaths have difficulty empathizing with others, and you of course don’t have this problem. You’re clearly very understanding of the situation surrounding Ms. Porter’s injuries. I’m sure you realized that having a strange man ask to examine her, and then threaten to drug her into unconsciousness to do so might feel overly similar to the nightmare she’s been living the last four months.” The tension in the room was palpable, and the man in front of me was speechless. The glare he gave me was formidable and he stormed past me, bumping my shoulder as he passed.

“I’ll make a note in your chart,” the nurse murmured, looking suitably chagrined. “I do need to replace your IV though, you’re not finished the last round of antibiotics yet,” she told Dahlia, who nodded quietly. I walked over to the chair beside her bed and set my bag down underneath it before moving closer to the bed. Dahlia’s hand was still bleeding, and I held out my hand to see it. Dahlia looked embarrassed as she held it out to me, but I was relieved to find that she hadn’t done too much damage; she must’ve taken out the IV carefully, and not just ripped it out as the surgeon had described.

“I can’t believe you said that to him,” she told me quietly as I took the gauze the nurse held out to me and pressed it down on the wound to stop the bleeding.

“Yes, well, just try not to rip any of your stitches out, okay?” I replied, smiling ruefully. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back anytime soon.” A smile bloomed across her face, and it erased a little of the haunted look in her eyes. The nurse finished replacing the IV in her other hand, and we switched positions so she could assess her damaged hand and bandage it properly.

“I didn’t mean to freak out,” she admitted, looking down at the bed. “I just… don’t like waking up like that. It’s a horrible feeling when the drugs wear off and you’re in a strange place, with strange people. Knowing they’ve been touching you while you’re unconscious, doing things without asking...” she trailed off. The nurse patted her arm gently in a comforting manner.

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again, alright?” she told her gently. “I’ll have the doctor come by later and discuss non-sedative options for when you’re feeling anxious.” She gave me a quick nod and retreated out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Dahlia was quiet for a moment, taking deep breaths like she was trying to steady herself.

I gave her a moment to collect herself before speaking up again. “Can I formally introduce you to my partner? Iunderstand your caution with strangers, but I promise you, Hunter would never hurt you.” Dahlia nodded and I walked to the door, opening it and beckoning Hunter to come inside.

He walked in and clapped me on the shoulder, shaking his head. “What the hell did you say to that guy?” he asked me. “We saw him nearly behead someone with a clipboard after he stormed out of here.” I just shrugged, shooting a quick glance at Dahlia, who stifled a small laugh.

“Dahlia, this is Agent Hunter Graves with the FBI. He’s my partner,” I told her, and he walked toward her, shooting her his typical charming smile.

“Work partner,” he amended with a smirk, and I rolled my eyes. As if that needed to be specified. “I’m sorry for giving you a scare this morning, I’d ordered Asher back to the hotel for a shower and I didn’t want you to wake up alone. He was really starting to stink,” he added with a grin, and I glared at him. Dahlia laughed, so clearly his charm was working its magic, as usual. He had a way of getting people to drop their guard, and almost everyone warmed up to him within minutes—even the suspects we interviewed ended up liking him half the time.

“I was thinking, we might have a way to help you reduce some of the fear you’re experiencing,” I offered, walking over to my bag and rummaging through the files until I found the right one. “You... uh, you never saw the person who did this to you, did you?” I asked, wincing at the callousness of the question.

Dahlia nodded slowly. “I never saw his face, or even heard his voice,” she replied softly. I held the file against my chest, walking over to her side.

“We have a picture of him, the man who did this. Steve Curing,” I told her, and she shivered, rubbing her hand over the bandages on her neck. “Do you think it would help to see what he looks like?” I asked. Hunter was hovering at the foot of her bed, watching me carefully, but not saying a word. I probablyshould’ve cleared this with him first, but so much of this case was just… reacting at this point, I just did it without thinking.

“Yes please, I’d like to see him,” she told me, and I pulled the picture we had of Curing out of the file and handed it over to her. Her hand was shaking as she held the picture up in front of her, her eyes scanning over his face, absorbing every detail and feature. She was quiet for several minutes, staring at the image in front of her, and I wasn’t sure what emotions were going through her head.

“His face is on every TV and newspaper in the country,” I said gently. “He can’t go anywhere without being recognized.” She finally handed me back the photo, her fist clenched in her lap, and she fought to steady herself. I tucked it back into the file and stowed it in my bag.

“What about my face?” she asked suddenly, and I frowned, not understanding.

“Your name and face hasn’t been released to the media,” Hunter replied quickly. “All anyone knows is that there was a survivor recovered.” Her face pinched, and she chewed on her lip, her hands clasped in her lap.

“I have… my friend, and my uh, my boyfriend, do they know? That I’m, uh, here?” Dahlia stammered, and I went through my mental catalog to recall their names.

“Amanda Billings and Josh Graysen,” I recited, and her face lit up. “Once we’re on route back to Quantico, we will notify them, and they can meet us there,” I told her, glancing at Hunter for confirmation. He nodded, his eyes full of something… was it pride? I couldn’t tell. I shifted uncomfortably, shoving my hands back in my pockets.

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