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Christian eyes me, a dark expression in his gaze when he steps into the dark room. It’s nearly dusk and the hospital is winding down, save for the nurses moving between the rooms.
“She know?”
I shake my head and he nods.
“Thank you . . .” I murmur. “Took a lot to go in there.”
“Took a lot to kidnap one of California’s most wanted criminals and make it look like an accident.”
I shrug. “I had help.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Alive,” I answer, though it feels like a lie. “Nothing major was hit, but she needed surgery to remove the bullet.”
Christian’s gaze is dark as he watches Hannah in the bed. “And the other?”
I know what he’s referring to, but every time I think about it, blinding red-hot rage slips through me.
“They did a rape kit. Nothing, but we’ll have to wait until she wakes up to know for sure.”
Christian’s face is grim and withdrawn. He’s always been dark, sticking to the shadows, but now, he looks like a ghost. I understand it.
Helplessness. There was no way that fucking plan should have worked, and yet, it did. Now that every threat has been removed, it’s hard to believe things could be normal.
Fuck, what even is normal?
“Any idea why Melissa Gaines did all this?”
“Fabricated this theatrical lie to send everyone on a wild fucking goose chase?” He waits for my answer. “Because she’s a narcissist. Probably had untreated bipolar tendencies that only got worse with the drugs.” I shake my head. Truthfully, I’ve been struggling to come up with my own resolutions to solve the mystery that is Melissa Gaines for the last eight hours. “She was so wrapped up in her own life and struggles that she was unreachable.”
“And Laura Gaines was more worried about her public image than being a mother.”
“Hannah and Melissa were dolls for her to play dress up with. Not people.”
“Got to hand it to you, Hannah’s a fighter. Even in there, she was ready to cut my dick off because she thought I was one of them. She’ll come out of this.”
I fucking hate that word. Fighter.
Fight to stay alive. Fight to be free. Fight for your next breath.
It’s all the same, isn’t it?
Just a euphemism used to bring about false hope.
“You’ll be safe tonight.”
“Your friend?”
He nods once but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t bother asking. Whoever Christian Cross’s “friend” is took out Cortez before any of us could even see where the shot had come from.
“Mila know you’re here?”
He pauses for a moment, before letting out a heavy breath.
“No.”
“You want her to know you’re here?”
