The creak and thump of crutches carries down the hall, and we both look up to watch Eddison slowly make his way around the corner. His top half looks almost work ready, the white dress shirt and black blazer paired with a black tie covered in tiny stained-glass rosettes. Instead of slacks, however, he’s in soft black lounge pants and trying desperately to pretend they’re professional, and black sneakers he hasn’t worn to the office since he was promoted to SSAIC. The pants are loose enough that the bulky bandages around his left thigh aren’t particularly noticeable unless you already know they’re there.
He looks terrible. The yellow plastic hospital band is still on his wrist, peeking out from his cuffs, and his color is awful beneath the week of dark stubble that’s basically a beard at this point. Tight lines around his eyes announce that he isn’t taking as much pain medication as he should.
Pendejo got shot a week ago, but damn us all if we try to get him to be sensible. Dios nos salve de idiotas y hombres.
“You’re almost late,” Vic says instead of hello.
Eddison stops in front of us and takes a minute to figure out how to be stationary on crutches. “I think every agent in the building has stopped to talk to me.”
“Glad to have you back?”
“Lecturing me to take it easy,” he corrects, scratching at his jaw. “Watts says I can’t be trusted to take care of myself properly, so everyone wants to see for themselves.”
“She’s not wrong.”
The exchange is familiar, the sound of a million other conversations, and I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes to let their voices wash over me. My thumbs keep up their rapid tap-tap-tap against my phone. The repetitive motion is making my wrists ache, but I can’t seem to stop.
The front of a sneaker nudges my shin. “Hey,” Eddison says. “We’ve got you.”
“I know,” I reply, voice a little too high to make it believable.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
“Mercedes.” In a trick the dirty bastard learned from Vic, he waits until I look up at him. “We’ve got you.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then do it again, this time on a count. “I know,” I say finally. “I’m just . . .”
“Will this help?” asks a new voice, and Eddison stumbles back with a yelp, catching himself on his crutches almost too late.
Sterling stands beside him with a small smile and a cardboard carrier with four hot drinks.
“Bells,” mutters Eddison. “I’m putting bells on you.”
“Promises, promises.” She hands Vic a cup that smells strongly of black coffee and hazelnut creamer, then hands one to me with the rich scent of chocolate. “I figured you’d be jittery enough,” she says with a shrug, “but if you’d rather coffee, we can switch.”
“No, hot chocolate is good. Hot chocolate is . . .” The hand not holding the cup is still tapping rapidly against my phone, a little rabbit heart about to burst from fear. “This is good. Thank you.”
Eddison eyes the two cups remaining in the carrier. “One of those is mine, right?”
“Yes, black as your soul even. You can have it once we’re inside.”
“Decaf?” asks Vic.
Sterling shrugs again. “I’d be worried about the caffeine if he was taking his drugs, but he’s not, so . . .”
“I am taking my drugs! Vic, don’t give me that disappointed look, I am taking my drugs.”
“Not all of them,” Sterling announces in a singsong voice, and from the beautiful look of disgust and betrayal Eddison gives her, I’m going to guess that she’s the one who sprung him from the hospital, and this is her price. I’m also going to guess she didn’t tell him that price up front.
“I will take the painkillers when we’re done for the day, but I’d like to not be a drooling, incoherent mess in front of IA, thank you very much.” He reaches out for the nearer cup, but she pulls it away.
“And how are you going to manage it with your crutches?”
“I’ve seen you do it.”
“You don’t have the figure to do it the way I do.”
The tips of his ears turning pink, Eddison sends a quick look down both stretches of hallway. “Do you mind? I’m trying to limit myself to one sexual harassment seminar a year.”
“Children,” Vic rumbles. Eddison glowers, but subsides. Sterling doesn’t bother with the glower; even at her most mischievous, she pulls off the innocent look too well to manage anything else well. For the first time, she’s wearing color here at work, her blouse a vivid royal blue that makes her eyes pop. It’s still a power color, not soft or especially girly, but I’m glad she finally feels comfortable enough to stray from straight black and white.
Does it say anything about me that this is helping me center? If they were genuinely worried about how this investigation was going to turn out, they’d either be very quiet (Vic and Sterling) or blatantly obnoxious (Eddison. Always Eddison). This is business as usual.
Behind the two agents on their feet, the door creaks open. Every conference room on this floor has a door that creaks, no matter how much WD-40 maintenance applies. Rumor has it some enterprising agent went through and put pins in every hinge, so anyone waiting in the hall for an IA deposition or disciplinary meeting has warning when the door opens. I have no idea if the rumor is true or not, but I also know that no agent will ever try to find out.
We’re not immune to superstition even if we are supposed to know better.
A young man, probably fresh out of the academy, stands in the doorway and clears his throat. “We’re ready for you, agents.”
Vic squeezes my knee. “Mercedes?”
I nod, take another minute to breathe, and finally stand up.
Eddison bumps his shoulder into mine, nose pressed into my cheek. “Remember, we’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone in there, chula.”
I breathe him in, his familiar scent altered by lingering hospital smells. For ten years, these two men have been my family, and Sterling is part of it now too. I’d have their backs through hell and beyond.
And they’ve got mine.
31
Two and a half days later, the interviews are basically done, and Agent Dern dismisses us for lunch. The verdict, such as it is, will come down when we reconvene. We retreat to the conference room off the bullpen to wait, and the girls are there, visitor badges clipped to their shirts. They brought the food, insistent on giving us moral support. Inara and Victoria-Bliss actually had to return to New York on Friday, but they came back down last night to be here, and that means a lot.
Eddison pokes at his food. He hasn’t had much of an appetite since he got shot, which is normal but still not great. He’s almost squinting against the pain, and the muscles at the left side of his mouth keep twitching. As gently as I can, I hook my foot under his and lift his leg until I can discreetly grab his ankle and prop it across my lap. Proper elevation won’t make it stop hurting, but at least it’s something. He lets out a soft sigh and nudges my elbow with his.
To be honest, I thought we were being wonderfully subtle, but Vic catches my eye and smiles slightly, shaking his head at Eddison’s stubbornness.
Priya slides a pair of scrapbooks in front of me, folding her hands on the table. “Vic, Eddison, you have copies coming of the first one, but it felt important to get this one done in time.”