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A vision of Maisri on top of Lindsay as he attacked her in my bedroom makes my eyes move rapidly, my heart speeding up.
“Drew?” Monica’s manicured hand covers mine, the bite of her French-tipped fingernails cutting through memory. “Perhaps you need more time to rest.” She gives the door to Lindsay’s room a nervous glance.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“No one is fine, Drew,” Harry declares, rubbing his palm across his chin. He hasn’t shaved, and his tie is loose. Monica’s the picture of perfection, but Harry’s unraveled a little. “No one.”
“Duly noted,” I say, relenting. “But I’m better than Lindsay. That damn gunshot. If John had better aim -- ”
“But he didn’t,” Monica says firmly. “He didn’t, and you saved her. We have a mess to wade through, but it’s a mess with a daughter who is alive.”
“They were so close,” I admit, my voice dropping as I fight the tightness in my throat. “Too damned close.”
Harry’s eyes go unfocused, the light shining on them. “None of that matters now. We have to deal with the situation at hand.”
Something in his words makes the skin around the base of my spine tighten. “What does that mean?”
“Lindsay’s up. Her reflexes are fine. She can answer yes/no questions. But she’s refusing to speak.”
“Did she have a brain injury?”
Harry shakes his head and blinks rapidly, shoving a hand through his hair. “No. Nothing that would explain this. According to the doctor who attended to her two hours ago, she made it clear she won’t talk. Not that she can’t.”
“What? Why?”
“We don’t know,” Monica whispers. “Shock? Trauma? She was kidnapped, hurt, stripped naked...” Her voice fades out, eyes hardening. “And then paraded all over every cable news channel, covered in blood and...well, you know the rest.”
I certainly do.
“The trauma from that would rattle anyone,” Harry rasps. “We’re hopeful she’ll ease her way into talking.”
That tightening in my back turns to a tingling warmth that sets off a hinky meter inside me. I think eight steps ahead, projecting what they’re saying.
“I’m sure she’ll recover quickly,” I say, more to myself than them. “A gunshot wound is no small experience.”
“You’ve been shot before?’ Harry asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve been damn lucky, but I know plenty of people in the field who have been. You don’t just magically heal. It’s a different kind of injury. Give her time.” I make eye contact with them both, pressing a point I can’t say. “Lots of time.”
“We’ll try, but the jackals are everywhere.” Harry looks pointedly down the hall, where camera crews crush the double doors leading to this ICU wing. “They’ve had two people slip in pretending to be medical staff already. I’m not sure how much longer we can keep her safe.”
“She needs time.”
“She needs privacy.”
“Silas and Mark are doing a great job,” I insist.
A tall doctor with brown hair, brown eyes, and the build of a hockey player appears. He has a nasty scar on one eyebrow, and he’s wearing scrubs, a lab coat, and a name tag that says JONAS in big letters.
“Dr. Jonas,” he says, reaching for Harry’s hand, then Monica’s, shaking them with great ceremony. “We’ll take you in to see Lindsay now.”
They go into the room. As I look around them, I see her on the bed, her right arm immobilized, her body covered in pure white sheets and blankets. Machines beep with soothing regularity, tubes connected from IV bags to her arm.
My phone buzzes. I damn near jump out of my own skin at the sensation, but shove my hand in my pocket and check, my broken finger forgotten momentarily. Gingerly, I use my other hand to find the phone. It’s Paulson.
Be at the hospital shortly. Have new information.
Silas approaches me with a tray of coffees, motioning with his chin for me to take one. I grab a white cup and sip, not caring what I drink. It’s black coffee. My tongue burns with the hot liquid, but I don’t care. Sensation of any kind that distracts me from Lindsay’s condition is good.
