Jen was still shaking, but her eyes were clear now—locked on his. Like she’d decided. She unclipped her safety belt and climbed over the seats toward him.
She took the seat next to him and took his hand. Her fingers curled around his. Held on.
He tightened his grip on her fingers.
A small, knowing smile crossed Caro’s face before she turned to look out the window, giving them what privacy a lifeboat could offer.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t just surviving the op. He was living something worth surviving for.
He’d already decided.
He wasn’t letting her go.
27
The ER doctorpressed two fingers into Jen’s ribs, making her flinch.
“Bruised but not broken.” He was young, efficient, and already moving to the next assessment. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“No.”
On the other side of the ER curtain, someone was arguing with a nurse about discharge paperwork. A phone rang. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
“You’re lucky.” He clicked his pen and scribbled some notes on her chart. “Considering what you’ve been through, this is minor. Rest. Fluids. Ibuprofen for the pain. Follow up with your regular physician in a week.”
Lucky.
Sure.
He left, and the curtain swished closed behind him.
She’d already given an initial statement to the FBI, and for now she could breathe, although she knew there would be many questions to come.
She sat alone in the sterile space and tucked her hands under her arms to stop the shaking. It didn’t work. Her body was still on the rig, counting seconds, waiting for something else to go wrong.
And her mind was stuck in a loop. Where was Wyatt? Getting stitched up somewhere in this same building? The knife wound to his thigh needed proper medical attention. Was he okay? The need to know wouldn’t let up.
The curtain tugged, and an older nurse with kind eyes appeared. “Your friend is asking for you. In room 214. Down the hall, take a left.”
Her heart skipped. “Wyatt?”
The woman shook her head. “Woman. Caro. She’s resting but asking for you.”
Oh.
“Caro. That’s great. Thank you for letting me know.”
Jen slid off the bed. Her legs were unsteady, and the hospital scrubs they’d given her were too big, the fabric bunching at her waist. Everything she’d been wearing on the rig had been bagged as evidence or thrown away as biohazard.
She hesitated at the edge of the curtain, one hand on the fabric, then pulled it back.
Two police officers, with their backs to her, turned. “Ma’am.”
“Hi. Can I go see my friend?”
