“Finney’s got guards outside the operating room and in the scrub room, just in case,” Vic continues before Eddison can decide whether or not a thank-you would be appropriate here. “I’ll wait here with him for more updates and coordinate with Ramirez and the team down in Rosemont.”
The curtain hooks rattle on their metal slide as Deshani pushes the plastic back into place against the wall. Priya settles back onto the bed, clad in fleecy, cheerful yellow pajama pants and a long-sleeve FBI T-shirt. “It’s a very well-supplied gift shop,” she says dryly, wrapping her hands gingerly around her hot chocolate.
“Isn’t it, though?”
There’s barely a second between the knock on the door and the door opening, and a woman in rose-pink scrubs enters. She gives Priya a conspiratorial wink. “I got the drugs, man,” she says, in a bad imitation of a television drug dealer. She waves a trio of white and blue paper bags, the tops folded over and stapled with long blue sheets of instructions.
Deshani pinches the bridge of her nose.
The nurse notices and laughs. “Oh, please let me play. I’m working a double with a doc who can’t ride herd on his interns. I need the venting.”
“That I can understand,” Deshani says. She rolls her head back, stretching until everyone in the room hears a soft crack.
“All right, ladies, here we are.” She launches into a brisk but thorough explanation of each medication and how to treat the wounds, as well as what to look for and when to come back in. Clearly, she’s had a lot of practice. When she finishes, she props her hands on her hips and regards both women. “The important thing, aside from remembering that I’m a nurse and therefore a font of wisdom, is to take care of yourself. You’ve got extra limits for a bit. Any questions?”
Mother and daughter examine the written instructions, then shake their heads in unison.
Both men smile.
“Then, unless these good agents need you to stick around, you are free to go. Would you like me to bring the discharge paperwork?”
Deshani glances at Vic, who nods a go-ahead. “Please.”
The storm that was steadily covering Rosemont in snow is only starting to move into Huntington as Mum drives us back, and despite his being a terrible passenger, Eddison insists I take the front seat. He sprawls and fidgets in the backseat. When we stop at the drug store for wound care supplies, he and I both stay in the car. At the grocery store, however—not the Kroger near the chess island—I unbuckle my seat belt.
“Are you sure?” Mum asks.
“I want something desserty. Something that is not an Oreo.”
“Come on, then.”
So Eddison ends up trailing us through the store with the basket hooked over one arm, and I can’t even imagine how we must appear. Well, no, I can a little, because we are getting the strangest looks. There he is in a Nats shirt and open FBI hoodie under his coat, me in my pajamas and bandages, Mum in her suit, both Mum and me still wearing the hospital grippy socks instead of shoes. But there’s the look on Mum’s face in return, the one that dares anyone to mention a single goddamned thing.
Mum is very, very good at that particular look.
There is nothing resting about that bitch face.
We get subs from the deli because there’s even less chance than usual of things getting cooked at home, and some snacks and breakfast stuff, and we detour through the ice cream aisle so I can find some orange sherbet, which should be easier on my throat than the ice cream Mum and Eddison quibble over until they each pick out their own pint.
The cashier stares at me as he moves our items across the scanner. “What happened to you?”
Eddison bristles but I give the boy a bland smile. “Demon-possessed nail gun,” I answer calmly. “We drew the diagram in the garage—more room, you know?—and did the ritual, and didn’t even realize the power cord had fallen into the circle of summoning.”
He looks about to protest, but Mum pats my shoulder. “Next time you’ll know to double-check before you start chanting. At least you sent it back.”
Eddison turns to fuss with the bags so the kid can’t see his smile.
It’s a terrifying shred of normality in something that is really, really not a normal day.
The couch is covered in a snow of linens, because tomorrow’s task was going to be sorting them into keep, donate, and toss piles. Might still be tomorrow’s task, knowing Mum. It’s not like we can’t do it while talking. What it means for today, however, is that even Eddison is sprawled on the floor with us to eat, and he manages to look not entirely disgruntled by that. We’re almost done eating when he excuses himself to the kitchen to take a phone call from Vic.
Mum decides the timing is perfect, and we go upstairs to wash my hair. And, you know, the rest of me, but the hair is the really problematic part. I get back into the yellow pants and FBI shirt, though, partly because they’re comfortable, mostly because they’re comforting.
Everything aches. Several ribs are cracked—several, the doctor said, and didn’t want to give me a solid number—and the muscles are tight and cramping. I’m not breathless or gasping, but I’m aware of every inhalation in a way I’m usually not. When you don’t have any trouble breathing, it’s really not something you pay attention to. It’s not just in my chest, either, but in the bruises and swelling through my throat.
I didn’t give adrenaline enough credit when I was trying to think my way through things. His, yes, but mine, too, making me stupid and desperate. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I would grab for the blade, hold on tight. Not the handle—the blade. My wrapped fingers are stiff and throbbing in time with my heart and they’ll be fairly useless for a while.
If I’m not stupid, though—more stupid—I should recover fully. A few scars, maybe, but if I obey my limits and take care of myself properly, the doctors said I shouldn’t lose any function. Only one doctor checked my ribs, but three of them looked over my hands. I have antibiotics and painkillers and sleep aids, and what I suspect is a rather strongly worded suggestion I get myself to a shrink for some antianxiety meds.
I probably should have been on antianxiety meds for the last five years, but now, for the first time since that terrible night we spent waiting up for Chavi, I think I’m actually okay without them. Mostly okay.
Will be okay.
That might be more disturbing than anything else, really.
Eddison is back in the living room, folding the linens we very purposefully unfolded to inspect. He doesn’t even look sheepish when Mum scolds him for it. “I’m too old to sit on the floor,” he tells her.
“I’m older than you are.”
“You devour souls to stay young.”
“True.” She takes the stack of folded linens from him, shakes them all loose again, and dumps them into a box with everything else on the couch. “What did Victor have to say?”
“Still in surgery. The lab is doing its thing with the blood sample and everything Ramirez and Sterling pulled from the apartment.”
“If he doesn’t make it, do you tell the families?” Gently pushing me onto the couch, Mum flops to the floor and leans back against my legs, absently reaching for the Xbox controller. It’s a way to keep her hands busy while we talk, because stillness is for when things go wrong. As long as she’s moving, nothing can be wrong.
Or something like that, but it’s Mum, and this is how she’s been all my life, and Eddison knows her well enough not to give the stink-eye for it.
“It’ll depend on how firmly the evidence ties him to the other murders. What he said, what we’ve found, is pretty damning, but may not be sufficient for the bosses to be comfortable declaring it. We’ll find out.” Picking up the blue-and-white envelopes for my drugs, Eddison reads through the instructions, then opens two of the bottles. One large pill, two smaller pills, all three of them white. He takes my hand and carefully transfers the pills to my palm. Then he gets up and heads into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of milk. “I know you ate, but sometimes milk gives a better cushion for the drugs.”