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A real bunny. I curl into it and toward Logan and let myself drift as Logan swipes his thumb over my hand in a slow rhythm. In the same rhythm as my breaths out and then my breaths in. In and then out. Over and over again until my thoughts fade and then there’s just sun, my bunny, and Logan.
Logan
Rachel: How is Abby?
Abby slept the entire time I sat with her at the hospital. She stirred, readjusted, but her hand never left mine. At times, her grip tightened. Other times, I was the one holding on. I’m grateful to be too exhausted to analyze it.
Me: Tired.
Rachel: How are you?
The same as Abby. Good.
Rachel: Are Isaiah and West overreacting?
Isaiah and West forbade Rachel to come anywhere near the hospital. Don’t blame them. Considering Abby was shot and I could have been hit in the cross fire... No. Don’t get ideas of riding solo. We’ve got enough on our hands without additional problems.
Rachel: You sound too much like them.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
The elevator doors open and I step out onto the main floor of the hospital. It’s one in the morning and West is on duty again. My head pounds. Could be a combination of my sugar level, exhaustion, and my messed-up eating and sleeping patterns. I’ve got to rein this in soon or I’ll end up in bed next to Abby.
“Logan,” calls a guy to my right and I glance over, but keep walking. I’ve already talked to the police—twice. Once at the scene then last night as I was leaving. This is starting to become a bad habit.
He catches up with me before I reach the double glass sliding doors. “I’m Officer Monroe. We met last night.”
We did. He’s late twenties, not dressed in uniform, and looks like the clean-cut younger brother of that crazy guy from Pirates of the Caribbean. I shove my hands in my pockets and wait. This guy was good enough to give me a lift to my truck and has kept his mouth shut on the diabetes since we talked. I can give him a few more minutes.
“I take it back,” he says. “I’m a detective now.”
“Congrats.”
“How’s your friend?”
“She was shot. How do you think?”
He studies me in this pensive way and then scans the room. “I know we’ve talked to you already, but I’d like to show you some pictures. See if you recognize anyone.”
The muscles in my neck tighten. Damn. Walking this tightrope is getting tougher and tougher. Isaiah talked about understanding where I stood on things. On Abby. On the drugs. Messed-up part, I’m more confused now than I was before and these police conversations aren’t helping.
We walk off to a vacant area of waiting-area chairs and he pulls out his phone. “Past twenty-four hours have been tough. Been trying to figure out who was the target and who was caught in the cross fire. Have you seen any of these people before?”
I think of Abby lying in that bed, cradling that stuffed bunny, and the elderly woman waiting for her granddaughter to return home. He shows photo after photo and I do nothing more than shake my head no. Not once do I have to lie and I’m not sure if I would if I did notice someone. Abby needs to see there are legit options.
He keeps swiping through photos. Some mug shots. Some not. “Searched you on Google. Congratulations on winning the baseball state championship this year. I played some ball back in high school, but I could never stomach catcher. Too many bats being swung near my head for my taste. Do you know this guy?”
“No.”
“You’re a good kid, Logan. The type I want my son to grow up to be. The last two guys, you sure you don’t know them?”
I shake my head ag
ain. I’ve never seen any of these people before in my life.
“See this guy?” Detective Monroe flips back to a picture of a guy about my age. He has blond hair, a big grin, too baby-faced for people to take seriously. “He died of a heroin overdose last week.”
My eyes snap to his and without changing his expression he flips to the last photo. “And this guy was shot in the head last night, execution style. I had to tell his mom and his brother. Hardest thing to do is tell someone that the person they love isn’t coming home.”
