“Oh my God. Are you avirgin?”
“No, I’m not a virgin. I—” What was I about to do? Defend my sexual prowess?
“Then, what is the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m a professional, and you’re injured, and I’m—” I didn’t finish the sentence. There was no version of ending it that made the situation better.
She laughed. It lasted half a second, and it changed her whole face. “You’re a grown man. It happens. Get over it and help me into the bathroom.”
I turned around. Her expression was closer to amusement than I’d gotten from her so far. I walked over and offered my arm. She took it, and I helped her to the bathroom.
The shower was a walk-in with a bench. She sat on it, and I turned the water on for her.
“I can wash most of myself. I need you for my hair and my left side where I can’t reach.”
“Okay.”
“You can look at me. You managed to undress me without passing out. The hard part’s over.”
She leaned her head back, and I washed her hair, working the dust out with both hands while the water ran brown and then clear. I was careful around the taped gauze that covered the gash at her hairline. She didn’t make a sound. I used the washcloth on her left side where the bruising was worst. She flinched once when I went over the ribs.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It needs to get done.”
I finished and turned the water off. She stayed seated while I got a towel and handed it to her. She dried what she could reach, and I did the rest without either of us saying a word, then I put the brace on her knee.
I helped her to the bed, where she’d laid out clean clothes. I crouched, and she stepped into the underwear and trousers while she held my shoulder. I pulled themup, then took the shirt and started on the buttons from the bottom. My fingers were less steady than they’d been on the washcloth.
“Better in the shower than getting me dressed. Promising.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Determined to make sure the person helping you is more uncomfortable than you are.”
She half smiled. “It’s one of my better qualities.”
I brushed her hair as gently as I could. As was to be expected, Beacon huffed with impatience rather than thank me.
“The cantonal police have given us a window at the site this morning,” I said. “We have a few hours before fedpol takes over. I need to get over there to read the blast patterns. You need to get to the hospital for imaging on your knee and arm.”
“I’m going to the site.”
“You can do both. Hospital is twenty minutes from there.”
“We have to go to the sitefirst, Blackjack.”
Knowing she’d never agree to it, I stopped myself from saying someone else could take her to the ER while I went directly to the site.
“What are you waiting for?” she said, standing on the threshold leading to the hallway, with one hand on her hip and the other on the cane.
I followed, unsure if I should help or let her manage on her own.
The staircase was twenty-eight steps. She went down one at a time. She planted the cane and gripped the railing with her good hand before lowering herself to the next step. It took her four minutes. I stayed two steps behind and didn’t offer help. She hadn’t asked for it, and this morning, she had the strength to refuse it. I kept close enough to reach her if the knee gave out and far enough away that she wouldn’t have to wonder why.
She reached the bottom and headed for the study.
