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My parents’ faces.
“Storm.” Raylin tugs on my hand, worry etched on her fine features. “Come on.”
Didn’t realize I’d stopped walking.
What I want is to run. Take off running, run until my lungs burn and my muscles tremble. Until I can empty my mind.
Instead I nod and follow her. Need to snap out of it. Guess the explosion back at the apartment shook me worse than I thought—and now this.
If Rook doesn’t make it…
The doors slide open in front of us, then close behind us. Nope, haven’t made it out of the strange daze. I’m walking through blood, and every face staring back at me is the face of a corpse, gray and open-mouthed, crimson dripping down their necks, soaking their clothes, and then—
“Mr. Jordan. This way, please.”
I blink at the tiny triage nurse. “We’re here for—”
“Mr. Roderick Carter. We have been expecting you. You are on the list of next-of-kin.”
“Roderick Carter?” Raylin whispers. “That’s Rook?”
“Yeah.” So much I need to tell her. So much I never thought I had to recall.
Because I didn’t think she was staying. Didn’t think I could keep her. Still not sure she’ll want to stay, even if we manage to get the triad off our backs, because maybe I’m not crazy after all, and the danger is real and much worse than I thought.
I never got to keep much, except money from deals with the devil and jumbled, bloodied memories. Never got to keep people I love, except for my two friends, and now one of them is lying in hospital because of me, and I don’t even know if he’ll pull through. The thought turns my insides to ice.
Fuck. We fall behind the nurse, winding through too-bright hallways, past open doors and exhausted people. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Yeah, that about sums my thoughts—for this day, this year and my whole damn life.
***
“He’ll be okay,” Raylin tells me for what has to be the twentieth time. “You heard the doctors.”
I’m leaning against the door frame to Rook’s private room, arms folded over my chest. The bandaged wound on my back burns, and my leg throbs, and it’s a background music, a symphony of misery.
Rook will be okay. I repeat the words in my head, forcing them to sink through the morass. He broke his collarbone and arm, and more importantly he banged his head pretty good, but he’s showing signs of waking up. The doctors are confident he’ll be awake in time for the evening news.
Troy Jordan’s limo went off the road today. Hit a lamppost. Driver dead. No news about the infamous Troy Jordan himself.
Until he walked out of the hospital, and everyone knew he was fine.
If they haven’t swung by to ask and know the answer already. If they aren’t waiting outside to finish him off. Because, hey, how much patience can this fucking killer have, making murder attempt after murder attempt look like an accident? How long until that patience runs out and I get a real big motherfucking bomb planted in my car or apartment, or a sniper takes me out?
I bet an examination of the limo will show brake failure and nothing suspicious.
Why aren’t I dead yet? Is their plan to get me into a madhouse, first?
Shit. I rake a hand through my short hair, tugging, the sharp pinpoints of pain a welcome distraction. Raylin comes closer, and I lunge for her hand, pull her to me. Warm, soft, bright. Right now she’s the only constant, the only anchor in a world spinning out of control.
“We’re going to a hotel,” I hear myself say. “Until we decide what to do.”
“And you’ll tell me the rest?” she asks softly. “About the roses and the secrets.”
My throat is closing. Rook is bruised and battered lying there on the bed, one arm in a cast and sling, unaware.
“I will.” No point in putting it off any longer. “But first we need to see about the triad.”
