“The kids?”
“Safe,” I tell him.
There’s a slight delay as the information filters through his brain, then his face relaxes somewhat with relief. After a moment, he asks, “What happened?”
That’s a good question. One I would love the answer to myself. What in the hell was he thinking going after Madison? And how did he end up out on the lake? “What’s the last thing you remember?”
He closes his eyes, frowning, then winces. “It’s all—” He swallows several times. “Thinking makes me nauseous.”
“Shhh,” I tell him, laying a hand on his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out later. Right now, the doctor said that rest would help your recovery the most.”
He lifts a hand and places it on top of mine. “You’re freezing cold,” he murmurs. “You been carrying around ice cubes?” He lets out a soft laugh. I don’t have the stomach to tell him how close to the truth his joke actually is.
“Something like that,” I say instead.
He smiles, and his eyes drift closed. “I love you, Gwen. Thanks for giving me a chance all those years ago.”
It takes a moment for me to be able to speak around the ache in my throat. “I love you too.”
I’m not sure if he hears me or not. His breathing has already fallen into the deeper, steadier rhythm of sleep. I sit, listening to the familiarity of it. How many nights have I lain awake in bed, the sound of him filling my ears?
How close did I come to losing that tonight? The thought alone threatens to doubles me over in pain.
“You shouldn’t have gone after Madison,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him. I clutch his hand tighter. “You can’t risk yourself like that. We need you.”
I realize this must be how Sam felt sitting by my hospital bed after I chased after Jonathan Watson and ended up nearly falling tomy death: this same mixture of rage and pain and terror and helplessness.
“We have to find a different way to live our lives,” I tell him. “No more getting shot. No more hospitals.” Of course, if saying it could make it true, we’d have already found a way past all of this long before.
I run my thumb across his knuckles, slowly tracing the rise and fall of his bones. “I have a confession. There were times I thought you might have been the one behind the sicko murders. Maybe I should feel sorry for that, but I’m not sure that I do. A part of me feels like, as your partner, I should have trusted you and believed in you, but…that’s where I went wrong with Melvin. I gave him my blind loyalty, and look what happened.”
I continue tracing the bones of his hand, down the length of his fingers. “I’m not saying I don’t trust you. I do. I just think that perhaps trust isn’t about blind faith, but maybe instead it’s about allowing yourself to ask questions and facing the reality of whatever answers you find.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Though maybe this is a conversation to have when you’re actually conscious.” I lean forward, cupping his cheek gently. “What I know is this: I love you, Sam Cade. I believe in you. And I plan to live the rest of my life with you, so I need you to get better and then stay whole and safe so we can enjoy it together.”
I stay that way for a moment, my thumb tracing his cheekbone, the machines chiming and beeping, his chest rising and falling steadily. I promise myself that things will be different. This time, we’ll find a way through.
The exhaustion of the day catches up with me, and I’m hovering on the edge of sleep when my senses ping that something is off. I straighten immediately and swivel toward the door, just as it swings shut with a soft click.
Standing in front of it, blocking the only exit, is Lilah Belldene, matriarch of the Belldene clan.
My stomach jolts, my body shifting instantly into threat mode. I lunge for the emergency call button on the other side of Sam’s bed, but she steps forward and yanks it away before I can grab it.
I search wildly for a weapon, but there’s nothing useful. So, I push to my feet and tighten my hands into fists. I’m pretty certain Lilah knows her way around a fight and likely plays dirty. Given my exhaustion and recent dunk in the frozen depths of Stillhouse Lake, I’m not sure how much energy I have, but I won’t make it easy for her.
I assume she’s here because of the rumors that Sam and I are the ones responsible for the feds raiding their property. I don’t doubt she’s seeking retribution. I try to head her off. “I wasn’t the one who tipped off the feds,” I quickly tell her. “Neither was Sam.”
I glance toward the bed. Sam’s still asleep, oblivious to what’s going on around him. Right now, he’s between Lilah and me, and I don’t like how vulnerable that makes him. I shift to the side, moving away from him and drawing her attention away with me.
“I know,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We got word it was that reporter livin’ out by your place. Some folk might argue she wouldn’t’a been here if it weren’t for you. So, I ain’t got no problem laying a bit of blame at your feet. But this ain’t about that.”
I notice the bags under her eyes and the worry lines caked into the foundation covering her forehead. She doesn’t look as put-together as she normally does, which is understandable given the warrant out for her arrest. Which makes it even more strange that she’s here, where someone might see her and call the cops.
“What’s this about, then?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“I hear you’re the one who picked up my girl and been taking care of her.”
So that’s what this is about. Florida. Does she think we kidnapped her? That we’re somehow holding her against her will?