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She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a little box on the cart. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember the restaurant. People were hurt.” He glanced between her and the policeman. He remembered Tyler and the steel beam. He remembered exchanging texts with Hannah. He remembered finding people alive—and dead.
The blood pressure machine beeped and the cuff deflated. The nurse ripped the Velcro free. “You took four bullets.”
Michael stared at her. His brain didn’t want to process this information, and all he could say was, “I did what?”
“You were lucky. Only one needed to be removed.” She gestured. “Your shoulder. The others glanced off your rib cage.”
Only one needed to be removed. But he’d been shot four times?
She peeled at the edge of the bandaging. “I was going to yell at you for pulling your stitches loose, but these look great. You kids always heal fast.”
His voice was tired. “I’m not a kid.”
She chuckled. “One day, you’ll wish someone was calling you a kid.”
Michael hoped he’d live long enough for that to be true.
Then he realized what she’d said about healing. “How long have I been here?”
Her eyes flicked up to his. “Almost twenty-four hours.”
A day! He glanced at the dim light peeking through the window blinds. It must be evening. The machine behind him kicked up its rhythm again. Michael swallowed. “My brothers. Do you know if my brothers are okay?”
“They’re fine.” A male voice spoke from the doorway, but Michael couldn’t see past the nurse or the police officer. Then Hannah’s father stepped into his line of sight. He carried a cup of coffee, and he looked about as worn and weary as Michael felt.
Then again, he was walking around unhindered, not chained to a bed with a bullet wound in his shoulder.
Marshal Faulkner clapped the police officer on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tony. You can take a break.” He glanced at the nurse, then pulled a plastic chair away from the wall to sit down beside the bed.
Michael didn’t want to look at him. He gritted his teeth as Elissa changed the gauze.
“Feel up to answering a few questions?” the fire marshal finally said.
“I want to see my brothers.”
“Prisoners don’t get visitors,” he said.
Michael turned his head to glare. He tried to force as much fury into his voice as possible—because that was infinitely better than breaking down sobbing. “I shouldn’t be a prisoner. I didn’t do anything.” His breath caught and he winced.
“Take it easy,” said the nurse. She glanced at the fire marshal and gave him a stern look. “Not too much questioning. He just woke up.”
Michael expected him to say something to put her in her place, but the marshal just nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she was gone, wheeling the little cart beside her.
Michael stared at the ceiling. His throat felt tight. Maybe it was the fire marshal sitting here waiting to question him, or maybe it was the fact that Jack Faulkner was Hannah’s father, but there was something extra-humiliating about being chained to a hospital bed, waiting for his fate.
He remembered the weeks after his parents were gone, how it had seemed he couldn’t get through forty-eight hours without a social worker or a police officer or an attorney at his front door. He hadn’t trusted any of them then, and he didn’t trust Marshal Faulkner now. Then, he would have given anything for one of them to step in and tell him everything would be okay, that he could handle it if he’d just be patient with himself and let the right answers come to him.
Now, he knew it was up to him alone. He could get out of this if he kept the upper hand, if he didn’t let emotion overrun his actions.
When he was sure his voice wouldn’t crack and his eyes would stay dry, Michael said, “So I’m under arrest?”
The fire marshal sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Maybe, Mike. I don’t know.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Michael turned his head. “What does that mean?”
