“Yeah, don’t tell anyone.” He winked and left.
She thought she’d have to choke down the food, that it would taste like sawdust, but as soon as the blueberry scent hit her nostrils, her stomach growled. For a vending machine muffin it was pretty good. She chewed and swallowed, with only a few crumbs getting stuck. She gingerly tried the coffee, which wasn’t horrible. By the time she’d finished both, she felt better. Not nearly good, but not collapsing in on herself, either.
She got up to throw her trash away in a can in the corner. As she did, a man in pale blue scrubs stepped through the doorway. He was looking at the chairs where she’d been sitting. She stood out of his immediate line of sight, so it gave her a second to analyze his look, prepare herself for whatever he was going to say.
The scrub cap had been pushed back on his head but not off, and he still wore the mask around his neck. He was probably in his late 30s, but deep grooves at his temple and the side of his mouth spoke of exhaustion. He stifled a curse and consulted the clipboard in his left hand, flipping papers and mumbling over them.
“Excuse me,” she said as gently as she could. He didn’t startle, but looked relieved when he spotted her in the corner.
“Molly Byrnes?” He walked over to her.
“Yes.”
“I have an update for you.” He gestured for her to sit. She’d have taken that as preparation for bad news, except he sank down next to her, his body in such obvious need of relief that she couldn’t freak out.
“About which one?” She laced her fingers to harness her tension.
“Both. Interestingly, we have a consent to release privileged health information to you for both of them, so I’m able to convey all the details of their health status to you.”
It didn’t surprise her that Brady’s records would have a release with her name on it, but that Christopher’s did, too, made her press her lips together and blink back more tears.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick—” He caught himself and smiled wearily. “Sorry. Brady’s injury was the least severe and not immediately life threatening. We repaired the damage done by the wound, with an orthopedic consult. I wasn’t the actual surgeon on his case,” he cautioned, as if anticipating questions he wouldn’t be able to answer. “Dr. Midrick was called to another emergency and asked me to relay her notes.” He flipped a few pages on the clipboard again. “He’ll need extensive rehabilitation, and we need to keep him for a day or two for observation post-op, but otherwise he’s fine.”
Molly’s breath came out in a long stream as half of her insides loosened. But she couldn’t inhale again, not until he told her the rest.
“Christopher…” He made a “Wow, that was a rough one” kind of face, but it didn’t project a look of “This is the worst part of my job, why can’t someone else tell her?” She sipped in air, the pain in her lungs generating tiny lights at the edges of her vision. The doctor noticed and put his hand on her shoulder. “Breathe, Molly. It’s okay.”
She obeyed, and her vision cleared. “He’s alive?” she croaked.
“Yes, he’s alive. And he’ll stay that way, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Oh, thank God.” The tears that had threatened for hours sprang to her eyes again. “I couldn’t handle telling Brady a second time.”
He gave her an odd look, but waited for her to collect herself before giving details. “I think you know that one wound was superficial, a through-and-through that caught his side but hit nothing vital. The second wound was far more serious, and he’s not out of the woods. We had to do major repairs and there’s a possibility of additional surgery in the event of internal bleeding. But despite organ damage, all are still functioning, and I’m fairly certain we closed or cauterized all open vessels. He’s under strict observation in the ICU and it will be touch and go for a while.”
“Okay.” Molly could draw a deep breath again. She could manage the fear and despair now, too, but anger began to take over. She clamped down on it, afraid to see how hot it would get. “Can I see Brady?”
“He’s in recovery. We’ll let you know when he gets moved to a room.” He stifled a moan as he pushed to his feet. Then he looked down at her hesitantly. “Do you mind if I ask…the files didn’t say. What’s your relationship to the patients?”
Damned good question, Molly thought, and gave the simplest answer. “I’m like a sister.”
He nodded as if her response was normal and walked out of the waiting room, checking the pager clipped to his waistband.
More waiting. But at least this time it was easier. Anticipation rather than anxiety. Should she go make some calls and let the Fitzpatricks know what was happening? Her stomach roiled at the idea. Not yet. She’d wait and talk to Brady and see what he wanted her to do.
A while later, Dix returned, a Band-Aid over a wad of gauze in the crook of his elbow. He carried a cup of orange juice and had a cookie crumb in the corner of his mouth. He looked even more tense and worried than before.
“Any word?” he asked as he sat next to her again.
Molly relayed everything the doctor had said. “I’m waiting for Brady to be moved to a room so I can go see him. I don’t know if they’ll let you—”
“They won’t. I’m not family, and these nurses are sticklers. I tested them.” He sipped his juice, his lip curling slightly.
“What’s the matter, you don’t like OJ?” she teased, pleased at how much lighter she felt, at least temporarily.
“Hate it. It was all they had, and they insisted I drink it or they’d tie me down and force me.”
“That might’ve been fun.” But the joke fell flat, and she shrugged. “Want me to scrounge some apple juice for you?”
Dix scrunched up his face. “Ugh. That’s even worse. But thanks for offering.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, but when the back of Molly’s head throbbed, she realized the tension had been growing since he returned. She studied him, and he didn’t notice. He fidgeted with his hands and shook his head in a tiny jerk, as if arguing with himself. She could practically see the conversation going on in his head.
“What is it?” she finally asked, when it was clear he wasn’t making the decision to share.
Dix flicked his eyes toward her, then the door, then the sign on the wall proclaiming death to anyone who used a cell phone. He watched the door while he pulled out his smartphone and thumbed it on. “I got this a few minutes ago.” After a few thumb swipes and taps, a video started.
“I’m okay.”
Molly’s entire body jerked when she recognized the girl on the screen. “Shae,” she murmured involuntarily, barely registering Dix’s sharp look as the video continued. Tears streamed down the teenager’s face, and her voice shook.
“But I’ve been taken. They want me to tell you to bring the information to Connecticut now, and they’ll let me go. If you don’t…” She trailed off, and a pistol entered the frame, aimed at her head. Molly gasped. “Send a text reply with your ETA,” Shae rushed on. Her eyes were crammed sideways, staring at whoever held the gun. Her breathing was ragged and fast, but she didn’t stumble over her words. “You have until morning to get here, or I—”
The image froze, and so did Molly.
Chapter Fifteen
“That’s it,” Dix said. “No details. No accompanying text message. No way to trace it without equipment and time we don’t have.”
“I can’t believe you weren’t going to show this to me.” Molly wanted to scream. She couldn’t look away from the small screen. Shae was wearing the same hoodie she’d worn at the funeral. The T-shirt peeking out the top of the zipper looked the same, too. Someone had been at the funeral home. Had they been inside and seen Shae’s exchange with Brady and Molly? Or had they been outside and simply spotted the girl, recognized her significance, and taken advantage of it?
“You’re dealing with enough already,” Dix protested. “I should show the detectives and let the authorities—”
�
�No.” Molly knew she was being stupid, but this wasn’t a typical kidnapping. Her mind raced. They didn’t have time to deal with the authorities.
She bent over the phone again, scrutinizing the frozen shot. The background was completely white, a wall or sheet or something. No reflective surfaces to enhance for clues. Though again—no equipment, no time. The gun pointed at Shae’s head was obscene, heavy and black and sinister beyond the obvious.
Molly sat, momentarily paralyzed with indecision. She was three hundred miles away, and both men she could rely on for direction were incapacitated. Could she trust Dix to help her with this? He had the video— Wait. Why did he have the video?
“Why did they send this to you?” she asked. “You don’t know who she is, do you?”
“I can figure it out. But no, I didn’t know she existed before I saw this video.”
“So the threat can’t be meant for you. You wouldn’t care.”
“Hey.” Dix looked down at her indignantly. “I’d care.”
“Okay, but not like we would. Me, or Brady, or especially Chris. So why wouldn’t they send it to them?”
“We don’t know they didn’t,” Dix pointed out. He swiped away the video and turned off the phone. “I could just be insurance.”
“No.” Nausea waved through her. “They know Brady and Chris are in the hospital. They had to have hired the shooter, as well as whoever grabbed Shae.” Did any of this matter? Why didn’t lead her to who or where. She was bracing herself to ask Dix for the information packet, or at least to go with her to Connecticut, when a nurse came in and said Brady was awake and insistent that she be brought to him immediately.
A warm knot formed in her chest as they made their way through the maze of corridors. She’d lost him emotionally when he declared his love for Jessica, and more concretely when he’d pulled away from everyone. Tonight, she’d come so close to actually losing him, irrevocably, forever. She had to take a chance, tell him how she felt, and stop wondering if the risk was worth it. The words crowded her throat and filled her mouth. Until she left the bright, cheery corridor for the dim sickliness of his hospital room…
She nodded her thanks to the nurse and made sure the door closed behind her before crossing over to Brady’s bed. He lay with his eyes closed, probably drifting from the anesthesia and apparently unaware that she’d come in. She stood for a while, swallowing repeatedly against the burn in her throat.
His body hadn’t changed. He filled the bed, his feet nearly reaching the bottom, the border on either side not wide enough for her to sit next to him. His uninjured arm wasn’t paler or less muscled. But the nasal cannula and the giant white bandage on his left shoulder still managed to diminish him.
She had never thought him or anyone else invulnerable or immortal, but it was a whole different thing to have it shoved in your face.
“Hey,” Brady said without moving or opening his eyes.
“Hey.” Molly stepped closer and slid her hand into his. The intense need to declare herself had subsided, and she held back on asking him how he felt to avoid the typical “How do you think I feel?” response. More important was, “Did they tell you about Christopher?”
Brady opened his eyes, then, and calm settled through her. They were as distinctive a blue-hazel as always, not dulled by pain or despair or even drugs.
“A little. I was still pretty groggy, so they didn’t bother with details.” His hand tightened around hers. “Nothing’s changed, right? He’s still alive.”
“Yes.” She covered his hand with her other one, an automatic gesture to reassure him. “He’s in ICU. They have to make sure there’s no internal bleeding post-op. Dix donated some blood. I wasn’t the right type…” She trailed off when she realized how close she’d come to rambling.
“Sit.” Brady pulled his hand free to reach for the chair by the bedside.
She quickly stepped in his way and scowled. “You weren’t going to try to pull that over here, were you?”
One side of his mouth curved and he settled back against the pillows. “Of course not.” He waited until she sat and had taken his hand again. This time, he stretched his fingers to curve over her palm and around her wrist, anchoring their hold more firmly. As if one of them was falling.
“What did you tell them?” he asked.
“Who?” She wasn’t sure if he meant his family or the police.
“Anyone.”
She sped through her conversation with Mike Wiszowski, knowing she couldn’t put off the worst news very long.
“I didn’t call your family,” she admitted, working up to Shae, prepared for him to be angry at her decisions. “I didn’t know how to tell them that Christopher had been shot.”
Brady’s chuckle turned into a cough, which made him wince and work his shoulder a little. “That’s good. My mother will kill us, but we need to wait until he’s awake at least. The fewer people who know he’s alive, the better. In fact—”
He started to lean forward as if to get up, but Molly lunged to her feet and pressed a hand against the good side of his chest. “Don’t be an idiot. Wiszowski’s putting a uniform on his door.”
Brady subsided but didn’t look less concerned. “I hope that’s enough.”
“Dix saw the guy, too. The one who shot you. Hell, they could already have him in custody.” She waited to be sure he wasn’t going to try to go anywhere again, then perched on the edge of her chair, throat closing.
“We need to get that information to the right people.” His voice was weaker, with slightly squeaky cracks.
They needed to do more than that, but how the hell was she going to tell him about Shae? He already wanted to leap out of bed. Finding out his niece had been abducted would catapult him out of the building.
“You need to rest,” she told him. “Dix and I will handle it.”
Brady didn’t seem to like that idea any more than she did. “What are you going to do?”
“We don’t know yet,” she admitted reluctantly. No way would Brady let her get away with telling him not to worry his pretty little head over it. “Dix thinks the best thing to do is get the file to someone on the oversight committee, but I’ve never heard of it, and he has no idea who’s on it or even who we could trust if we did know.” She remembered what Dix had told her in the park about his reasons for investigating in the first place.
“What?” Brady said.
Molly glanced up to find him studying her.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No, it’s not—” She had to tell him, but couldn’t yet. “It’s Dix. He’s afraid his father is involved.”
“Did you read the packet?” He scowled. “Do you have the packet?”
“Dix does. He got it from the shooter after he ran. But no, neither of us has had a chance to read it. Or at least,” she amended, “he says he hasn’t.”
“Presumably the information will say who’s dirty.”
“But that doesn’t mean no one else is.” She rubbed her temple. Her headache had intensified again. “We need to find out who’s on the oversight committee, and from there, determine who might be okay.”
Brady slid his hand out of hers again and motioned, palm up, fingers flicking toward him, in a “give it up” gesture. “Cell phone,” he said.
She pulled it out but warned, “It’s off. Like it’s supposed to be.”
“You’re such a rule-follower.” He snagged it, waited for it to boot up, then used the speed dial. He waited while it rang, then, when someone answered, said only, “Oversight.”
She could hear the one-word answer clearly: “Me.”
He hung up and held down the button to shut off the phone. “See? Thirty seconds. Less. They’ll never know.”
She absently took the phone back and shoved it in her pocket. “That was your father?”
Brady nodded.
“So I guess he’s definitely in the business.” She sighed. “A lot of years of secrecy have been destroyed t
his week.”
“Maybe for the better. Molly…” He toyed with her fingers and didn’t meet her gaze. “I want to talk to you.”
“We are talking.” Her heart skittered through several beats before settling into a quick rhythm.
“No, I mean talk. About us.”
Terror seized her lungs. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put it all out in the open when everything was so complicated, when she was driven by fear instead of hope. Maybe fear was stopping her as much as it had propelled her a short time ago, but the sheer selfishness of putting her feelings over Shae’s situation dwarfed it all.
“Brady, they have Shae.”
He froze. “Who has her?”
“Whoever we’re after. They sent Dix a video.”
Brady cursed and started to get out of bed again, but stopped when a loud beeping sounded outside the room, loud enough to have penetrated the closed door. Commotion followed.
“That sounds like an alarm at the nurses’ station.” Molly stood, hands curled into fists, watching the door. There was no reason to think it meant anything, but the ICU was on the other side of this floor. It shared a central desk with the step-down unit Brady was in.
“Wait here,” she ordered him in a voice strong enough that he obeyed. Or maybe the pain in his shoulder, enough to make him gasp when he moved, convinced him to stay. He motioned his agreement, and she went to open the door and peer into the hall. Health personnel rushed around, some toward the ICU octagon, some to the central nurses’ desk to back up the ones running to the alarm. A few others hovered, either waiting to see if they were needed or just watching.
Molly asked the nearest nurse what was happening, but wasn’t surprised when she got a polite demurral. She looked back over her shoulder to Brady, who shooed her to go, his face tense and one leg out of the bed. She’d better go check it out.
“Where’s the rest room?” she asked the nurse, hoping it wasn’t away from the commotion, but the nurse motioned toward the crossroads of hallways.
“Down to the right a little way,” she said without looking at Molly. “On the left side of the hall.”
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