I sigh, lean close. “Tell you what, I’ll fix your arm if you promise to just talk to me. No guns, no knives, no hitting each other.”
He looks up, face red with pain, exertion. His glasses are long gone, and as much as he is my Brian, my husband, he also reminds me of a dangerous, unpredictable animal. The way he’s looking at me, I’d say he thinks the same thing aboutme.
“Temporary truce?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. “Truce.”
I release him. His arm hangs loose at his side, unusable. Aware this will not feel good, I carefully take his forearm and bend it at the elbow, then rotate the entire arm in a fast, jerking motion until the joint clicks back into place.
His whole body spasms, a grunt escaping his throat. “God, that hurts.”
“Yeah, well. Better than being shot.”
He grunts. “Easy for you to say.”
I step far enough back that I’ll have a moment to react if he reaches for a gun or a knife or rushes at me again.
“What do you mean, easy for me to say?”
Brian reaches for the wall, fights for an upright position. And that’s when I see it—blood pooling beneath his shoulder—or is it his chest?—turning his white shirt a bright, disturbing red.
“You got shot?”
“It ricocheted,” he mutters, wincing. “Your aim sucks.”
I scowl at him. “Or maybe I wasn’t aiming to kill.”
That makes him look up, makes him take me in again with his dark brown eyes, as though trying to sort out if he can trust me. Even I’m not sure of that. I still don’t know who he really is, what he’s actually done. It’s entirely possible that my husband still needs to die, that it will be my job to carry out that death sentence. That knowledge makes my stomach clench. But he’s shot—bleeding enough that a puddle has formed at his feet.
“You need help. The hospital is just a few blocks away—”
“No.” Brian shakes his head. “There’s a number in my phone. It’s in the storage unit. Call that.”
I stare at him, trying to grasp what he’s telling me. He has a contact—a doctor on call or someoneoff-the-record, someone who won’t report a gunshot wound to the police. But I already knew that. I look him dead in the eye. “Who are you?”
He stares back, unflinching. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
We need to talk, butthe blood pouring from his shoulder means he needs medical attention first and foremost. The ride in the van is tense, silent. I’d pepper him with questions, but he’s holding his breath in pain.
What feels like an hour later, we end up in an apartment building overlooking the River Walk. On the way here, I got a text from who I assume is Victoria:It seems he’s headed back home; I’m tracking him. I hope you saved your husband in time. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you…at least for a while.I take that to mean Ian is not going to make a second attempt on my husband today.
But tomorrow? Who knows.
“Well, hello, Brian.” The woman who answers my knock at her apartment door must be seventy, short and stooped, white hair tied up in a bun, her voice a little creaky. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Come on in. Let’s see what ails you.” She waves a hand, walks away from the door like she has utter confidence we’ll follow at her heels.
Her space is bright but cluttered—colorful canvases splashed across the walls, no two pieces of furniture alike. If I weren’tfocused on keeping Brian alive—albeit, temporarily—I might find it claustrophobia inducing. But she leads us through a narrow hall, past many closed doors, to a room at the back with a small adjustable bed and bare walls—far more sterile than the front of the apartment.
“Strip and have a seat.” Her voice is commanding—that of someone who knows they will be obeyed. My eyes skim her form—elephant pants, a loose-knit tank top. Gold jewelry. No bulges belying weapons. A quick scan of the room tells me she must be a doctor, a nurse practitioner—someone who does medicine. Cabinets that might house antiques in any other home contain oxygen masks, rows of IV catheters, a package that sayschest tube, and more.
“Concierge medicine.” Her voice is clear, sharp, drawing my attention back to her. She watches me with hard eyes—perhaps wondering if I inflicted the injury on Brian. “That’s what I do. Keep it quiet, though. I lost my license a decade ago.”
“I was actually thinking I should ask you for your card,” I say.
She smiles and notably doesnotprovide me with one. She turns to Brian, who’s removed the suit jacket we draped over his shoulders to keep from attracting attention. Dripping blood tends to do that. “Heavens to Betsy, Brian, what mess did you get yourself into this time? No, don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question. Is the bullet still in there? Goodness, let me find the lidocaine. Oh, and ketamine. Here, let’s start with some pain relief.”
And without missing a beat, she stabs him in the arm with a needle. To Brian’s credit, he barely winces. The white shirt he left the airport in is in shreds, soaked with nearly dried blood. His chest is smeared red, and he looks like someone else entirely—someone like me. Or maybe it’s my perception—like I’m seeing his true self for the first time. It’s fascinating, and I watch him like a hawk, not wanting to miss even the smallest detail.
