Abigail might have rolled her eyes—it was hard to tell with her Cleopatra-like makeup—but she stepped aside. “Whatever.”
“I like your outfit,” Annie said as she pressed past her and headed to the staircase. “The colors are stunning.”
“I made it. I did the tie-dye, too.” If she was surprised by Annie’s calm demeanor, she didn’t let on.
Three steps up, Restless bounded down the entire flight to greet her properly. Annie gave him a quick pet, knowing that he hadn’t seen much of her lately. With the dog now on her heels, she made it to the top landing, where she ran into John.
“Kevin’s awake,” she said.
“He’s okay?”
Because she hesitated, she sensed that John would know she was going to say something that was not totally true, but would be as close as she could come, what with Restless entwining himself around her feet and Abigail staring up from the living room. “He needs time to acclimate to everything that’s happened, but the doctor said that physically, everything looks good.”
John reached down and petted the dog, which Annie recognized as a way to redirect his feelings. The Lyons men had trouble expressing theirs. “That’s good. Kevin’s a good man. And,” he added, as he stood again, emotions now in check, “Mike Hoffman’s a good surgeon.” He looked into her eyes. “You want to come upstairs and tell me more?”
She was about to say yes, because she wanted to tell him what had really happened, how Kevin had screamed when he’d seen Meghan; she wanted to tell him about Simon scrubbing the floor and that she was now certain he’d been the one who’d interviewed her for theGlobe. Mostly, Annie wanted to find out if her love for John was back, intact, if her withdrawal had been merely a knee-jerk reaction because he had hurt her, despite that he’d since said he was sorry. She wanted to ask about his ex. But as badly as Annie wanted to talk—really talk—to John, right then her text alert went off.
The readout said:MVHOSPITAL.
MIKEHOFFMAN HERE.KEVIN IS CALM NOW. HE ASKED TO SEE YOU. ALONE. ASAP.
* * *
Annie’s flip-flops slap-slapped on the hospital floor as she hurried toward the staircase. She didn’t want to bother waiting for the elevator—climbing would keep her in motion, pushing forward as quickly as she could, getting closer to seeing her brother, to actually talking with him.
“Kevin,” she said once the nurse had cleared her to go into his room. “God.” She put her fist to her mouth and bit down, trying to deflect her tears.
Then he opened his eyes, looked at her, and said, “Hey.”
She decided not to give a “seagull’s crap”—as Earl like to say—about crying, so she removed her fist and released the dam.
“Jesus,” he said weakly, but still smiling. “I’m the one who should be crying. I got shot. Not you.” Then he frowned. “You didn’t get shot, too, did you?”
She smiled. “No, I did not get shot.” She dragged a chair to his bedside, sat down and took his hand, the one that no longer had tubing attached to it. “Are you in pain?”
“Not if I don’t move. I think I’m pretty well drugged.”
“Good.” Wiping her tears, she took a long breath.
“Now,” he said. “Will you please tell me what happened? Did I shoot myself with my own gun?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Kind of, but it’s spotty. I was in your cottage . . .”
“And Simon Anderson was there.”
“Right! He was shouting at you! I ran to get my gun so I could scare him off.”
“You scared him, all right. He thought you were going to shoot him.”
“Me? Shoot anyone?” He laughed, then coughed.
She waited until he was calm again. “Simon tried to push you to the floor. You guys struggled. The gun went off.”
“Sounds like a movie.”
“Not one based on any of my books. It was too much of a cliché.”
