Anxious, restless, and needing something to do, I take the water pitcher from her bedside table and go down the hall to the ice maker, fill it, then return to the room and fill it with filtered water. I wonder if I should wake her up and—
“Did you fill that up for me?”
I startle at the unfamiliar sound of her gruff, scratchy voice. She doesn’t open her eyes as she tilts her head toward me. Licking her lips, Candi presses her fingers to her temple and then her throat as if checking herself over for injuries. Her eyelids flutter and my heart skips a beat as she looks at me.
“Am I burned?”
I set the pitcher down and move closer. “No.”
She sighs. “My throat is killing me.”
“You had a lot of smoke inhalation. Do you remember anything?”
“I don’t know.”
She struggles to sit up, and I hurry to help her. Her spine seems so fragile where the thin hospital gown conforms to it. Holding the water for her, I’m strangely pleased as she takes a small sip. She swallows a few more and then leans back against the bed.
“Tell me what happened,” she says with effort. “How did the fire start and how did you know about it? How did you find me?”
“Don’t worry about that right now. The important thing is that you’re safe now.”
She blinks rapidly as tears fill her eyes. “Am I?”
Her hands tremble where they rest against the white hospital sheet. She looks at her hands, watching as she twines her fingers together. It’s something she does when she’s nervous, I’ve noticed. I softly lay my hand over hers to still the movements.
“Yes, you’re safe. And the doctor said you’ll make a full recovery. Pretty soon I’ll be able to take you home.”
“What about Juliana?” she croaks. “One minute we were talking, and the next, the entire building was on fire. The smoke got so bad so fast and I…I tried to find her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t find anyone.”
I ran the scenario over and over in my mind as I waited for Candi earlier during her examination with the doctor. Riggante’s men had to have planted smoke bombs as well as incendiaries in order for the smoke to be that thick. It was an extra layer meant to disorient and trap Bruno’s men. I’m not going to tell Candi any of this, of course. Not yet.
“We’ll talk about it at home, after you’ve had some time to rest,” I tell her.
She looks at me and the grief and desperation in her expression makes my chest tighten.
“Did she survive?” she asks. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I tell her.
Candi’s chest hitches as a sob works its way out of her.
“Shh,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “You need to not get worked up right now, okay? You have to heal.”
Another sob lodges in her throat and then she gasps. “Wait. Armani. There’s something I need to tell you.” She looks around. “Where’s my purse?”
“You didn’t have it when I dragged you out of there.”
She clenches her eyelids shut. “Shit.”
Another sob threatens to break, so I help her take another sip of water, holding the cup steady until she’s done. And then her face changes.
“My dress. Where’s the dress I was wearing?” she says, sounding panicked. “I need it.”
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it. Sit tight.”
I go grab the plastic bag that they used to store her personal belongings and take out the folded dress, still completely saturated with the smell of smoke and soot and something chemical. I hand it over and Candi digs around inside the pocket, tugging out a small white card. She breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. The photo. It’s—”
