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“Yeah.” If Quinn had been dead, it would have been a doctor, right? Or the police again. She had to be alive.
When he came through the door, she turned her head. Somebody’d cleaned off her face, and she was in a hospital gown. Her face was white except where it wasn’t, the skin below her eyes was swollen and turning shades of red and black, she had a metal splint on her nose, and her neck was red and bruised, the skin horribly swollen.
“Hey,” she said, in a voice so scratchy, it hurt to hear it. “Sorry about that. I’ve had … better ideas. Good thing I didn’t … die. Wouldn’t want to do that to you … twice. Sorry. My … fault. I always think I’m … the only one who can … fix it. I know. My fault.”
He sank down in the chair beside her, took her hand, and lost it. He cried, bent forward with the pain and the force of it. Her hand was in his hair, holding him, and he wanted to say,Don’t comfort me. You shouldn’t be comforting me after what I did.He couldn’t say that, either, so he cried until he couldn’t anymore, until he was gasping and shuddering. Not wanting to look at her, and needing to.
She handed him the box of tissues from her table. “Your turn,” she said in that thin, scratchy voice. “I’m kind of … glad. I hated being the … only one who cried.” And smiled.
“Nah.” He mopped up and blew his nose. “It’s guilt. I should never have done that. Bloody fool.” It wasn’t enough to say, but what would be?
“I think I … did it.” She sighed. “Seemed like a good idea … at the time. Good thing I’m strong, huh? But I wish I’d … kicked her ass.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Good thing.”
“And a good thing you’re so … smart. You called the … cops. There was a cop … in here already. I heard you hit Samantha … in the face.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
“I hope you broke her … nose. She broke my nose.” Another sigh. “Oh, well. I wasn’t that pretty anyway.”
“You’re wrong.” He still had hold of her hand. He was going to be holding that hand forever. “You’re more than pretty. You’re beautiful.”
“You don’t have to worry about … Abby anymore.” Her eyes were trying to close. She had to be so tired. “She didn’t want to … leave you. She wanted to come … home to you. The only thing she did was … try too hard. Love too much.”
“Like you,” he said. “Exactly like you.”
“Because you’re … worth loving. And could you keep … holding my hand?”
“I could,” he said. “And I will.”
She smiled faintly and went to sleep.
That was OK. That was fine. He’d just sit here and hold her hand.
* * *
The hours dragged by.Quinn was still drugged, but not drugged enough not to ask him, “What time is it?”
“Nearly three,” he said.
“Have you had … lunch?”
“Lunch? No. I don’t need lunch.”
“Yes, you do. You need lunch and … coffee. And to call the kids. I can’t remember the time. When is it? In … in Montana?”
He had to think. That was because he was shattered. “Eleven.”
“Eleven? At night? Then you have to call them … later. When it’s their morning.”
Which was what he did. At ten-thirty that night, by the lifts, with the last of his energy, since all he wanted was to go to sleep in Quinn’s room. Which, of course, she hadn’t wanted him to do, but he’d said, “Don’t even try. I’m going to be here.”
“You’re … bossy,” she’d said.
“So are you,” he’d answered, and she’d smiled. And, about ten minutes later, had fallen asleep again.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair by the lifts beside a half-done jigsaw puzzle of big-eyed kittens in a basket, he heard the phone ring, then Bam’s voice. “Beckett. Hello.”
