Questions asked and answered.
Then asked again.
Every time she described what had happened, it felt less real and more horrifying all at once—as if she were recounting someone else’s nightmare while still trapped inside it.
Brian had stayed the entire time after getting permission from his supervisor to have his debriefing this morning. He’d pulled a chair close to her bed and never once looked impatient or distracted. When her voice shook, he squeezed her hand. When she lost her place mid-sentence, he quietly filled in the gaps without speaking over her.
Meanwhile, Sean, Rafe, and the SRT team had handled the remaining arrests, given their own statements to their respective supervisors, and waded through what was undoubtedly a mountain of paperwork. Sean and Rafe had checked in with Brian several times while she was in the ER, asking how she was holding up. She’d caught pieces of those conversations and felt a surprising wave of gratitude. It made her feel like she was part of the family Brian had mentioned before—part of that thin blue line of law enforcement. Even if she stood on the outer edge of it, she wasn’t outside looking in.
She’d been in the ER for about half an hour before Andy had arrived with Dan and Bonnie.
She could still see her brother’s face when he first walked into her room. White. Tearful. Shattered.
“It’s my fault,” he’d kept saying. “I shouldn’t have— I didn’t think?—”
She’d grabbed his hand despite the IV in her arm. “Stop. I’m okay.”
But he hadn’t believed it.
And this morning, he still didn’t, if his avoiding her, downcast gaze, and slumped shoulders were any indication.
With her mind ping-ponging from one horrible memory to the next, unbidden and relentless, she glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Ugh.
What had felt like three hours had only been three minutes since she’d last checked the time.
While she was exhausted, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the hard, damp floor under her. The bite of plastic around her wrists and ankles. The suffocating press of that hood.
Her fingers curled around the blanket, holding it close, wishing it were Brian’s arms instead.
I will always find you. Always.
The words felt fragile, like something precious that she wanted to—no, needed to hold onto.
His voice had been solid in the aftermath of her ordeal. Grounding. Certain. He’d held her like she might break apart if he loosened his grip.
Her chest tightened again—but this time for a different reason.
He’d left for his headquarters just before six a.m., over five hours ago, needing to fill out paperwork, debrief with his supervisor, and be interviewed by someone from Internal Affairs—standard operating procedure for an agent-involved shooting. He hadn’t been able to give her an estimate of when he’d be back, but she hoped it would be soon.
Dan and Bonnie had stopped by earlier with a bag of fresh bagels and a tub of cream cheese, the kind gesture wrapped in quiet concern. They hadn’t stayed long—just enough to see her with their own eyes, to look Andy over, and to assure themselves neither of them was falling apart more than they were letting on.
The older man had rested a steady hand on Andy’s shoulder and told him to take the day off, but to be at the store tomorrow on time and ready to work hard. No lecture. No pity. Just expectation.
Andy had nodded, subdued but responsive, giving Tess a flicker of relief.
Somewhere along the way, Dan Malone had slipped into the role of father figure without making a production of it. Gentle when needed. Firm when necessary. Clear about right and wrong. Tess had watched the shift happen over the past few weeks and couldn’t deny how much it mattered.
She imagined that the same steady influence had shaped Brian and his brothers after their parents' deaths. Structure instead of chaos. Accountability instead of anger. Love without smothering.
Andy needed that. And for the first time since all of this had started, Tess allowed herself to admit she couldn’t be everything for him on her own.
Her gaze flickered toward the hallway that led to her brother’s room. His door was still closed. No music. No game sounds. No low murmur of him talking on the phone drifting under the door.
He’d only come out one other time that morning—to use the bathroom—his eyes down, his shoulders rounded. He refused the breakfast she’d offered to make for him, just shaking his head and retreating to his bedroom like he didn’t deserve to take up space.
Guilt.
