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A muscle flexed in Dylan's jaw. "What time are you operating?"
"Nine-thirty. The good news is, the bullet shifted after piercing the lung. It's now lodged closer to the skin. I'll make a small incision and extract it. I don't expect complications. Hopefully, the antibiotics will take over. In the meantime, I want him to rest. Minimal visitation. One person at a time. Five minutes max."
"Understood. What about his kidneys?"
"They're still not responding on their own. But the dialysis did its job. And his blood pressure's stable. So, first things first. Let's get rid of the infection. Then we'll discuss the kidney options."
Sabrina felt the doctor's gaze slide to her. It was a reflexive gesture. Nonetheless, it served as a blatant reminder of the pivotal role she might be called on to play.
Her insides clenched.
Dylan was looking elsewhere. He'd twisted around, and was scanning the lounge to determine who was there. Sabrina followed suit, unsurprised to see Susan Lane hovering near the window, her face lined with worry, and Stan Hager—whom she'd met briefly before going in to see Carson—seated on the couch, slumped forward, his head in his hands. From the opposite direction, two official-looking suits were approaching—one man, one woman—bearing down on them like two lions about to pounce. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were detectives.
"Oh, joy, rapture," Dylan muttered under his breath. "Here come Whitman and Barton." He turned back to Dr. Radison. "Have you brought them—or anyone else for that matter—up to speed on where things stand with Carson, or about your plans to remove the bullet?"
"No. I wanted you and Ms. Radcliffe to know first." Dr. Radison cleared his throat. "I assumed there'd be questions. And I wasn't certain who'd been told about the biological ties between the patient and Ms. Radcliffe."
"I appreciate your discretion. But the detectives know. I told them before I flew up to Auburn. I'm sure that's why they're here—to meet and greet Carson's daughter." Dylan turned to Sabrina, presumably to give her some insight into what to expect. He took one look at her sheet-white face, and changed his mind. "Are you okay?" he demanded, frowning. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine." She was beginning to sound like a broken record. And the truth was, she was anything but fine. She was on major overload. And the doctor's update had only made things worse. Dammit. More surgery. More risk. No improvement in kidney function. Less time to make an increasingly critical decision.
"Sabrina." Dylan's tone was more gentle than she'd heard him use until now. "I told Carson I'd take care of you, starting with getting you over to your hotel. If you're not up to speaking with those detectives, say the word. I'll tell them you're drained and their questions will have to wait. I've gotten good at putting them off. Besides, they already think I'm scum. This will just feed into that opinion."
"What?" Sabrina didn't understand what he was talking about.
"Never mind. Just say the word and I'll delay this interrogation."
"That's not necessary," she said tonelessly. "There won't be any interrogation. Since I never met Carson Brooks before today, I don't have much to tell them. So let's go ahead and get this over with."
"You're sure?"
A nod. "Yes. As long as we can go into an empty office or lounge. I won't have this conversation in the open."
"You can use my office," Dr. Radison offered quietly. "You'll have all the privacy you want there."
"Thank you." Sabrina assessed the detectives as they closed the gap between them. The woman looked like a cornstalk with hair and an ice-blue gaze so razor-sharp it reminded Sabrina of Superman's X-ray vision. As for the man—well, excluding his suit and the slight paunch around his gut, he could have passed for a bouncer, complete with bulldog expression and kick-ass demeanor.
They stopped in front of her, and the bouncer spoke first. "Mr. Newport, Doctor Radison." A questioning glance at Sabrina. "I assume you're Sabrina Radcliffe."
"I am."
"I'm Detective Barton. This is my partner, Detective Whitman." He gestured toward the cornstalk, who acknowledged the introduction with a nod. "We're investigating the shooting."
"So I've been told," Sabrina replied.
"I'm sure you have." Barton slanted a look at Dylan— one Sabrina could swear was accusing.
If so, she'd have to set them straight. Dylan had actually been very close-mouthed on the subject of the investigation. Whatever Sabrina had picked up on had been based on attitude, not words.
"In any case, Ms. Radcliffe," Barton was continuing, "we'd like to talk with you. Alone." Another sharp glance at Dylan. "You don't have a problem with that, do you, Mr. Newport?"
Anger glinted in Dylan's eyes. "Nope. Like me, Ms. Radcliffe is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."
The tension here was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
"Good." Barton turned to Sabrina. "Is now all right?"
Sabrina nodded, wondering at the dynamics here. Whatever was going on, it clearly went beyond a difference in philosophy. The detectives didn't like Dylan, and the feeling was mutual. Why?
