“I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talktohim.”
The cop appeared confused but nodded. “Please have a seat. I’ll get back to you.”
He picked up the phone in front of him, but I didn’t have a lot of hope. I turned to take a seat in the waiting area.
An hour crept along. Rowdy went back to the hospital to pick up my release papers I’d run out on and any med prescriptions from Dr. Andoh. I was pretty sure I’d missed an antibiotic or two already.
The solid door to the side of the information counter opened and a tall man in a tan suit with dark hair, boy-next-door looks, and suspicious eyes walked out into the lobby. He strolled over and stopped in front of me, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m Detective Hanlon. Who are you to my informant, Drew Greene?” he leaned forward to ask softly.
“Informant?”
“Peter Gaffin.” The man’s cologne, crisp and clean, tickled my nose. I wasn’t around a lot of men with the opportunity to dress and smell like him, and I almost found it off-putting, even if he wasn’t hard on the eyes.
My brain scrambled and I hesitated.
“You know what? I don’t care about the sordid details as long as you come in and get him talking again.” He jutted his chin toward me. “Can’t get a word out of Gaffin, and we were just getting to the useful parts. He clammed up.” The detective massaged his temple with a finger and stared at the floor.
“What did you do to him?” I tried not to sound pissed off as I shoved unsteadily to my feet, but not being able to get to Peter had started to wear on me. Worry dug in my guts.
“Nothing.” He sighed, and when he glanced up, the strain around the set of his mouth was clear. He had exhaustion in his eyes. “Do you want to see him or not?”
“Yes.” I tried to take a step too fast and almost fell over, grabbing the back of the chair I’d been sitting on for support.
“You on something?” Hanlon asked, eyeing me up.
“Technically? Yeah, but I just got out of the hospital. I was stabbed by some inmates.”
Satisfaction swamped me as his lips parted on a small gasp and his shoulders went back. “Really? And now you’rehere? You must really want to see Gaffin. Must have a vested interest.”
“I do.”
“Noted.” He let me follow him slowly, and I breathed through the pain of walking at a seminormal pace. I trailed the detective through the door near the counter and back to some familiar-looking halls. I’d never been in this police station, but offices everywhere were the same—fliers stuck up in places with information. Bland white paint on the walls. Sturdy carpet that wasn’t pretty. He led me to a steel door, then opened it, standing aside so I could go in first.
Peter sat hunched with his forehead pressed against the top of a cheap wooden table. Behind him was a dark mirror, and I wasn’t stupid. We were in an observation room, and chances were if I stepped foot inside, I would be recorded. I sucked in a deep breath and wobbled on my feet, bracing myself against the doorjamb. If I left now, I could play this off. If I stayed, nothing would ever be the same.
Peter was in a wheelchair, this one cheaper than what he’d been rolling around in at TFC. I didn’t know where the chair came from, but I didn’t like the blue plastic. It wasn’t nice enough and wouldn’t make him comfortable if he was already hurting. His shoulders heaved and my heart cracked. Was he crying?
“Aw, fuck it,” I growled out and rushed over as fast as I could. There was no chair beside Peter, and I dragged the one opposite him around the table to his side, but my injuries hurt like a pain symphony, and they all shouted about how I needed another painkiller. Hanlon helped me move the chair the last few feet, and I gave him a grateful smile as I sank onto it.
Leaning forward, I wrapped my arms around Peter’s shoulders. His breath hitched and he shoved at me until he glanced up and his gaze locked with mine. There was a fresh wound on his cheekbone.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered and ran my fingers under the line of stitches that were shiny with some sort of ointment. That would scar. His face was a mask of horror—pretty honey eyes too wide, mouth too thin—and a deep pit opened in my gut. He was fucking scared, and I hated that. I pulled him closer, and at the same time he dove toward me and almost fell out of his chair. I sucked in a breath at the aches and pains in my body from the impact. He pressed his face to my neck and shook his head.
“Didn’t want it. None of it,” he whispered, repeating himself in a loop. He seemed like he was trapped in some terrible spot in his mind and couldn’t crawl his way out of it.
“I know. I’m here. Come on, I’m here.” My gut twisted and I wanted to puke. I wasn’t sure, but I was fairly certain I had an idea of what Peter hadn’t wanted. “You talking about Black?”
He nodded and the flow of his miserable words dried up. He went quiet and shivered against me. Those motherfuckers. How long had they had Peter in here dragging up his past? I wasn’t even certified as a therapist and knew there was a limit on how much one person could endure in a day.
“Did he get you after I left?” I asked and held him closer. Anger began to replace my sadness. I’d go to work and shoot the fucker.
“No. Not… not now. Before.”
My gut dropped again, but my rage didn’t die down. I pressed a kiss to his temple. Hanlon came back into the room, scaring the shit out of me as he closed the door. Flinching, I held Peter closer. There was an almost apologetic smile on Hanlon’s face as he set down the chair he’d brought in with him, on the other side of the table from us.
“Peter, you were talking to me about your personal time with Tatum—”
“Skip it,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “Can’t you see he isn’t in any shape to talk about that?”
