“How is he?” I ask, hoping she’ll let something slip. “Officer Weaver. How is he doing?”
Morrison’s face shifts. She knows him.
“He’s stable. They transferred him to Tallahassee Memorial this morning, to the spinal unit there. They’ve got the best team in the region for this type of injury.”
He’s already gone.
“The spinal unit?” I repeat.
“It’s the right move.” She pauses. “Is there anything else you need from us?”
I need someone to tell me he’s going to walk again. I need someone to tell me that he’s going to stand up out of that bed, put his uniform on and go back to work and live the life he was supposed to live before I sat on a barstool and ruined it.
“No,” I say. “Thank you, Detective.”
She walks me out. In the lobby, the deputy behind the counter nods at me.
I drive back to the condo. I open my laptop and try to work on the wedding. I answer the florist email, call the caterer and confirm the menu because I have to keep working to pay my bills. I had a career and a life that existed before the shooting and will have to exist after it, whatever “after it” turns out to mean.
But the name of a hospital is sitting in my head. Tallahassee Memorial. Two hours east. He’s in the spinal unit.
I close the laptop and grab my keys. My car has eighty-seven thousand miles on it and a big scratch on the passenger door from a shopping cart. It’s not fancy, but it gets me where I need to go. The map on my phone says one hour and fifty-three minutes on I-10 east. I put the car in drive.
I call Dante at the halfway point because the noise in my head is getting too loud.
“Please tell me you’re at the wedding house doing your job,” he says.
“No, I’m on I-10. Heading to Tallahassee.”
“What the hell are you doing, Benji? Why?”
“The detective told me he was transferred this morning. He’s at a hospital there in the spinal unit.”
“How far is that in drive time?”
“Two hours each way.”
“You’re driving four hours round-trip to sit in a hospital for a man you don’t know?”
“Yeah.”
“A man who has his own people. Who has that big guy, Tex. And the bartender and whoever else. He doesn’t need you there. That’s not your place, Benji.”
“I know he doesn’t need me there.”
“Then why are you going? You’re being weird. This isn’t like you.”
“I need to be there. To check on him.”
“Benji,” he says gently. “You can’t fix this by showing up. I know that’s what you’re trying to do and you can’t.”
“I’m not trying to fix it.”
“Then what are you trying to do? You must have PTSD or something. Did you hit your head when they knocked you down? You’re not thinking straight.”
I don’t have an answer for him because I don’t have a plan. There’s no speech prepared to say to Mickey or a casserole in the backseat to hand to anyone. I didn’t even think to bring flowers.
“I’ll call you when I get there,” I say. “I just need to show up and be there for him. Even if he doesn’t know or care that I’m there. I know it sounds crazy.”
