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Minutes after I hung up, the doctor came out. He told me they were able to stop the bleeding, but they weren’t equipped to do more than they had. They had a medical helicopter coming to airlift Lucas to Atlanta. “I’m going with him,” I said, my tone and eyes daring him to tell me no.
He nodded and said, “Yes, sir. They’ll be here in five minutes. We’ve prepared him for transport. We’re needed on the roof.”
We headed to where the team of doctors and nurses were crowding around the elevator, Lucas on the gurney. He had thick padding on his shoulder and stomach, his face was contorted in pain, and his breathing was erratic. I shoved my way to him and laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder, and he stilled, his breathing evening out. I whispered, “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” I moved to step back, and the doctor held me fast.
“No, stay where you are. He seems to be responding to your presence. We’ve given him all the anesthetic we can, but he won’t calm. In Atlanta, they can give him stronger stuff, but for now, you’re it.”
Right by his side is where I stayed. On the helicopter, the doctors and flight nurses all worked around me, bustling to get cords and equipment situated, but I didn’t move. I continued to whisper to Lucas, telling him I was there, letting him know he was safe, and telling him I loved him over and over for so long that by the time we got to Atlanta, my voice was gone, and I was breathing the words. I still didn’t stop.
We ran to the elevator when we landed, and when we got to the corresponding floor, I tried to go with them but was stopped by a team of nurses. The only reason I didn’t barrel over them was because I saw the doctors immediately start working on Lucas, giving him pain meds and prepping him for surgery, even though they weren’t near an operating room.
The nurses led me over to a room and told me this was where they would bring Lucas if the surgery went well. I sat in that room for twelve hours, not moving, eating, or speaking. After waiting for so many hours, a nurse finally came in and told me the surgery went well, but he hadn’t woken up yet. She said I could wait here, and they would bring him in when he did, but when they brought him in, he was still asleep. His face was relaxed, so I took that as a good sign. Shortly after, the lead surgeon came to tell me he was in a coma. There was no medical reason they could find, but maybe his body was resting, trying to heal some injury they couldn’t see.
So here we were, two weeks later, and he was still in a coma. The doctors said all his vitals were fine, his labs and images normal. They said he would wake up when he was ready.
I barely left the hospital. They initially told us he could only have three visitors, but Ricardo Santana—the new Division Director from the South Carolina Field office—told them to bend the rules since I wasn’t leaving, and it wasn’t fair asking Momma, Pop, or Cass to come in separately. They decided to move him to a private room where all of us could come and go as we pleased, even after visiting hours.
Santana gave us updates on the case, letting me know I was cleared for killing Dr. Leonard Greyson. Even though he was shot in the back, he was an imminent threat to Lucas’ and my safety as he had a weapon he planned on using when I shot him. His connection to Bush had gone unnoticed because Bush’s records were sealed from his treatment as a minor. Bush had stopped being Greyson’s patient when he turned eighteen.
About a week ago, analysts told Santana that when they reviewed the old tapes, they noticed there was an inch difference in the heights of the masked men, but they didn’t notice it before because their mannerisms and killing styles were so similar. Since they always wore a mask with no identifiable markings, they couldn’t tell it was two killers.
When they searched Greyson’s house, they found the footage from after the murders of him and Bush staging the bodies and him giving Bush therapy sessions, discussing the murders and how they could do better the next time. The evidence against him was pretty damning. If he were alive, it would have been an open-and-shut case.
Because Santana came to visit often, I got to know him. He was a nice guy but young to be in the position he was in. He told me how impressed he was that I was able to put three bullets into Greyson without hitting Lucas. I didn’t know how I missed him myself. My hands were shaking, and I was terrified, but I did like my gun safety instructor said and aimed for center mass because it made for a larger target.
Even though he wasn’t awake, I told Lucas about all of it. I wasn’t sure if he could hear me, but I didn’t care. I talked to him constantly. I told him my life story, about my time in college, about working at the publishing house, and about the end of my book. I finished it while I was sitting with him when I felt overwhelmed and needed something to take my mind off the pain of him not talking back.
Cass, Momma, and Pop came every day as well. They brought me changes of clothes after I refused to leave his side after the first three days. I had to sit Momma and Pop down to tell them why I didn’t want to leave. They were surprisingly cool with it, although Pop did pull me to the side and told me if I hurt his son, he would still love me, but he would try to kill me. That was the first time I had laughed in days.
On day fifteen, I was brushing Lucas’ hair, telling him about when I realized I was in love with him. “The kitchen smelled awful from the burned pancakes, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. That’s how I knew I loved you because I can’t stand the smell of burned food.”
“Love you too,” I heard in a whispered voice. My hand stilled, and I looked down at his face, searching for any sign that he’d spoken and I wasn’t imagining things. When his eyes didn’t open and he didn’t say anything else, I sighed and went back to brushing his hair.
“Anyway,” I spoke through a lump in my throat. “Your laugh as I grabbed the pan—”
“Love. You.” This time I saw it. I saw his lips move. He was awake!
“Baby?” I asked like it could be anyone else.
He struggled to open his eyes, but he did and cleared his throat. “What did I… tell you… about… calling me… baby?” It took a while, but he finally got the words out.
I let out a sound that was a mix between a laugh and a cry, tears running down my cheeks as I kissed him. “Oh, baby, I missed you! Are you okay? In pain? Oh my God, your parents won’t believe it.”
He tried to laugh but ended up coughing. “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “Let me get a nurse in here.”
I pressed the call button, and a nurse came into the room shortly after. She saw Lucas’ eyes open and gave him a wide smile. “It’s good to see those eyes, Agent Blackwell. Let me get the doctor. Mr. Michaels, you’re going to need to step out when he comes in.” I nodded, no longer caring. He was awake. He had come back to me. I looked back at him and kissed him gently on the lips. “I meant to tell you before I left you. But I love you. I do. I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you.”
“A few… weeks… not a… long… time.” He struggled to speak, his throat dry and scratchy. I kissed his lips again just as the doctor came in.
“Mr. Michaels, would you prefer to stay here? I know how hard it’s been for the nursing staff to get you more than ten feet away from his bed.” I laughed, feeling giddy.
“If I have to leave, I will. But if I can stay, I would rather do that.”
“You can stay. How do you feel, Agent Blackwell?”
“Tired… throat… sore.” He motioned toward his throat, and I hurried to get him a cup of water and a straw. After sitting him up in his bed, I put the straw in his mouth. He took small sips, draining the whole cup. “Another?” I asked. He nodded, and I got him another while the doctor checked his vitals and wrote on his chart. By the time he’d gotten the second cup down, Lucas looked more alert and was sitting up a bit higher.
“Are you feeling any pain? I know you just woke up and we’ve been giving you intravenous pain medications and antibiotics, but do you feel any discomfort?”
