Page 22 of Dirty Quinn
But it’s also not dead.
I get back in my car and race toward Mercy Hospital, dialing Alyssa’s number as I go.
I relay everything I know to her and instruct her to watch out for any additional information that goes through the wires. Once upon a time I was Daria’s emergency contact on her medical records. Hopefully that hasn’t changed.
If it has, I’ll just flash my badge and say we’re married or some shit. Whatever I need to do to make sure I’m by her side as soon as humanly possible.
* * *
It’s another four hours in the waiting room before anyone comes up to update me on Daria. It didn’t matter how many times I asked, and whether it was in an FBI capacity or a family member, they didn’t give me any information until they were damn good and ready to.
“Mr. Limonov?” the doctor asks. I want to ask him if there is any part of me that looks Russian, but I also don’t want to be a dick. I really don’t care at this point what name he calls me as long as I get information about Daria, but I correct him anyway.
“It’s Murphy, but yes. How is she? Daria Limonov?”
“She’s stable, but pretty banged up. We’ve got her in the ICU now. She was in surgery to correct a small amount of internal bleeding. She has a concussion that I want to monitor, a fractured rib causing minor pneumothorax, and she fractured her right wrist. Beyond that, it’s just contusions and abrasions, several of them, but mild, given the circumstances.”
“When can I see her?”
“She should be waking up soon, I’ll have the nurse come and get you.”
“Can I sit with her in the meantime?”
“I don’t see why not. Follow me. I’ll show you to her room.”
* * *
I’m not prepared for Daria’s condition, even though the doctor warned me. I’ve seen people in all sorts of states of injury before, hell I’ve been injured myself a million different ways. It physically hurts to see the woman that I love reduced to a lump in a bed with tubes and wires everywhere; her nose, her chest, her arms. Plus, a cast on one hand, bandages over her head, and bruises on every inch of skin visible to my eye.
I know that bruises often appear worse than they are, but how Daria looks only stands to reinforce in my brain that I could have lost her today. I’m not okay with that. I can’t be without her. My life won’t work if she isn’t in it.
I sit by her bedside, willing her to wake. I know she needs to rest, that’s imperative to her healing process. But I need to see her eyes, hear her voice, make sure for myself that she really is okay. I grip her free hand in mine, careful not to jostle the IV, and kiss each of her fingers. Needing some kind of contact with her whether she realizes that I’m here.
Evening turns to night, which cycles into day, and I’ve yet to see my baby’s beautiful eyes. I need to know she will be okay, and the only way to know is to see it for myself. So, I start talking to her, telling her all the things that might freak her the fuck out because she’d say I was moving too fast, but I don’t care. She scared the shit out of me yesterday, and I have some things I’d like to get off my chest.
“What were you doing yesterday, baby? Huh?” I smooth her hair back from her face, still somewhat sticky from blood and sweat. They cleaned her the best they could but definitely didn’t get everything. I know she will want a shower first chance she gets.
“Why were you at Turgenev’s? You scared me, Daria. I can’t lose you. You can’t just go off half-cocked doing these things on your own. That’s what I’m here for, baby. You gotta go take some scumbag out, you call me. I’ll help you.”
It occurs to me right then I mean what I’m saying. I would much rather ensure Daria's safety, no matter what she’s doing, then continue my career in the FBI. It wasn’t even my idea to join. They recruited me out of the service. I know I’ve got skills that are unique and useful in criminal apprehension, but goddamn, the hoops we have to jump through to do it is ridiculous.
I’d rather follow in Daria’s footsteps and just take these scumbags out myself.
Oh shit.
Do I mean that? Or am I suffering from sleep deprivation after spending the entire night in this fucking chair?
Do I really want to go from agent to vigilante?
How would I deal with the immorality?
Maybe that’s easier than I think it will be. I mean, I don’t fault Daria or her girls for it. I can figure out a way to not fault myself either.
How would I make a living? That’s really the question. I have savings, but not enough to not have to work again. That would mean retirement, and that’s a whole different gig.
I take a deep breath and let my thoughts simmer for just a minute, realizing that I am okay with this idea. It wasn’t just a whim because I’m afraid of losing Daria. I would have no problem leaving the FBI. Would I have felt this way if today hadn’t happened? If I wasn’t sitting here next to Daria in the ICU? Hard to say. This wasn’t really an idea I’d entertained before.
But now it’s different.
