I’m at the hospital, beside Kurt’s bed. I paid to upgrade him to a private room, and he’s sleeping now. He’s been in and out of consciousness since the ambulance came, first from shock and blood loss, now from painkillers and exhaustion.
Leo Saratori has found me. My game of Russian roulette with therapists is over. The bullet has slid into the chamber.
Four days ago, I confessed to a new therapist; today, Saratori catches up with me. That’s no coincidence. That therapist looked up the details and found my story. She told someone. Maybe she found a way to contact Saratori. Maybe she just called the police and someone figured they could get a windfall from Saratori if they told him first.
However it happened, I made a mistake. Many mistakes.
I’d mentioned Kurt to the therapist—no name, just that I was seeing a bartender. Saratori’s thug had been stalking me and followed me to the bar. He got his boss to run Kurt’s name and learned of his gang affiliations. Then he called to make sure he was talking to the right guy.
I’ve misjudged Leo Saratori. He knows that perfect revenge is not dumping my body in the river—it’s making me live, knowing I’m responsible for my lover’s death.
But Kurt is alive. Thank God, Kurt is alive.
The doctor has assured us Kurt will be fine. The bullet went through, did some muscle damage, missed everything critical. Forty-eight-hours-in-a-hospital serious, not permanent-injury-or-death serious.
While Kurt is sleeping, I make some calls. First to Diana to tell her to take a cab to work in the morning. She doesn’t pick up. Not surprising, given it’s 4 A.M. Then I phone my work and Kurt’s to say we won’t be in today. I’m hanging up from the last when his eyelids move. After a few flutters of indecision, his eyes open.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He clears his throat. I hand him water, and he sips it, then says, “Those are some damn fine drugs. You’ll need to refresh my memory: did I piss someone off or did you?”
“Me. All me. I saw the same guy tailing me the day before last, but I mistook him for another detective. It was a stupid, careless mistake.” Nearly a fatal one.
He takes my hand and tugs me over, shifting on the bed to make room for me. When I resist, he says, “If I have to tackle you, I’ll be stuck in this bed even longer.”
I sit. He keeps hold of my hand and my gaze.
“I’m okay,” he says.
“No, you’re not. You were shot, and that’s my fault.”
“Bullshit. It’s the fault of the asshole who shot me.”
“That’s not—”
His hand goes to my mouth. “Stop. Shit happens. Doesn’t matter what side of the law you’re on.”
“It’s not related to my job. It’s from … before that.”
“Something to do with all this?” His fingers touch a pucker on my forearm. Where bone once jutted through my skin.
He’s seen the scars. The damage is impossible to cover without hiding under the sheets, and I don’t hide. The first time we slept together, he didn’t seem to notice the marks until afterward. He just touched one of the knife scars and said, “You okay?” and that was an invitation to explain, but when I only said I was fine, he dropped it.
I nod. “I got myself into some trouble back in college.”
He tilts his head, and I know he’s thinking my marks aren’t like his own physical reminders of a youth lived hard and wild: the scars, the tats, the old needle tracks. Mine suggest a single incident. A single attack.
“You paid someone back?” he says. “For doing that to you?”
I try not to look surprised that he’s hit so close to the bull’s-eye. “Something like that.”
“And it was the kind of person who remembers, the kind who won’t let you walk away and consider the score even.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not looking for an answer, Casey. Not unless you’ve got one to give. I’m just figuring stuff out. Someone is on your ass. Someone dangerous enough to hire thugs. We’re gonna need to do some serious thinking on how to fix this.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“We’ll handle it. I’m not in any shape to go after anyone right now, but I will be soon. If that’s not enough, I know guys. Guys who owe me. We’ll fix this. Until then, I know you don’t like carrying your service weapon, but you need to. At all times.”
He continues on, planning, working out how to keep me safe, and I can only stare at him. This man just took a bullet for me. He’s lying in a hospital bed because I brought my crap to his doorstep. And all he’s thinking about is how he can help me fix this. What he can do for me.
“You’re really something else,” I say as he finishes.
“A good something or a bad something?”
I lean over, my lips brushing his. “An amazing something.”
“Nah, I’m just building up credits.”
“No, you’re amazing,” I say. “Also? Shit at taking compliments.”
He laughs, puts his hand on the back of my head, and pulls me down into a kiss.
* * *
As I walk up to my apartment, I’m thinking about the last few hours. A night of hell. A night of surprises, too, chief among them the shock of realizing I can still feel. And what I’m feeling right now? Pain and regret.
As soon as Kurt’s back on his feet, I need to cut him loose. Even the thought makes me gasp for breath. It hurts. Physically hurts. I want to be selfish and jump at his offer to help and tell myself it’ll all be fine and I can have this, I can have him.
Tough shit, Duncan. You dug your grave twelve years ago, and if you give a damn about Kurt, you’re not going to let him fall into that grave with you.
This is what I’m thinking when I unlock my apartment door. It’s not until it swings open that I realize Diana hasn’t secured the interior deadbolt. I swear under my breath. I hate treating her like a child, but sometimes …
The security panel flashes green. Unarmed.
I dash in to see a lamp toppled to the floor, the shade three feet away, the bulb smashed across the carpet.
There’s blood on the floor.
Blood on the floor.
Oh, God. Oh, fucking God. First Kurt. Now Diana.
I never called to warn her. No, worse—I called, and when she didn’t answer, I thought, Huh, guess she’s sleeping.
The blood turns to drips in the hallway. Those drops lead into the bathroom, and there’s Diana lying on the floor, bloody water everywhere, a red-streaked towel clutched in her hand. I drop beside her, my fingers going to the side of her neck.
She’s breathing.
I carefully turn her onto her back. The blood is from her nose. Broken. Again. Her lip is split; more blood there. A black eye. Torn and bloodied blouse. I quickly check for holes—bullet or blade. She moans when I touch her chest, and I rip open her shirt to see bruises rising on her torso. She’s breathing fine, though. No broken ribs. No lung damage.
I take out my phone to call 911. Her eye opens. One eye, the other swollen shut. One bloodshot eye that looks up at me as she whispers, “No.”