I find Izzy in the recovery suite on the second floor. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, a fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder where the bullet grazed him.
He looks up when I enter.
“Hey.”
His voice is flat. Distant.
I close the door behind me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He shrugs.
“I’m healing.”
I walk closer, studying him. There’s something off. Something in his eyes. A distance. A distraction.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He looks away.
“I’m not lying.”
But he is. I can see it. I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s hiding something.
“Is it her?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens.
“Who?”
“Becca.”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
I feel the jealousy flare hot and sharp in my chest.
“She’s gone, Izzy.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’re mourning her?”
He stands abruptly, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound.
“I’m not mourning her.”
“Then what is it?”
