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“One-handed while keeping pressure on that gash?” Monroe shook his head. “No, Chief. You did good. Now, go get stitches before you pass out. Don’t make me call for a medical rescue chopper for your ass.”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth. That Chief hadn’t been a mistake either. That was a deliberate reminder that he outranked me. Accompanying Holden was a command, not an option.
Whatever. I could survive an hour or two with the guy, then get right back down to the bottom of the lake where I belonged.
Chapter Four
Holden
I wheeled ahead of Cal, unlocking my car as we went. The guy looked like hell. He’d stripped out of the dry suit, which had smeared blood on his arm and neck, and the T-shirt he’d put on was already blotchy and red. He still had a towel pressed to the worst of his wounds, but his pale skin concerned me the most.
“Pray for my upholstery,” I muttered as we reached the car. The Mustang’s exterior was red, but I’d selected a light-gray leather for the interior, a decision I was questioning at the moment.
“This is a sweet ride.” Cal hesitated at the passenger-side door. “You said it’s custom?”
“Yep.” Another time, I would have happily shown off all the nifty accessible bells and whistles, but right then, I was concerned about the growing red spot on the towel. “Damn it. You’re really bleeding.”
“Sorry. I’ll pay for your cleaning.” Cal made a face as he gingerly lowered himself into the seat, making a clear effort to not touch the seat leather with his shoulder or back.
“I’m not truly worried about the leather. I was joking. I do that.” Probably too often, but who was counting? My mom always complained that I used jokes to cover every uncomfortable emotion, and she wasn’t entirely wrong. It wasn’t the upholstery I was worried about. It was Cal, but he’d been bristly from the start all day. He wasn’t going to welcome my concern. But worried I was, so I transferred myself to the driver’s side and stowed my chair in the back as quickly as possible. “I’m legit wondering if we should have sent for that chopper. Keep pressure on the wound, and tell me if you get lightheaded or feel faint.”
“I don’t faint.” Cal managed the seatbelt with a decisive click.
“Next, you’re going to tell me you don’t do stitches either, but I guarantee you’re going to need some.” I put the car in drive and gave Monroe one last wave. He and several state police personnel were chatting near the other vehicles. Cal had reluctantly given Monroe the keys to the motorhome, and his gaze lingered on his RV.
I left the dive site in my rearview, not speeding, but definitely calculating the number of minutes to get to the urgent care clinic in Safe Harbor.
“Damnit.” Cal slapped his thigh with his free hand. “Sorry. Not mad at you. But I want to get back down to where we found the suitcase. I need to look for trace evidence and anything I didn’t see on the first pass. And if I need stitches, you know a lecture is gonna come about not getting the wound wet.”
“Take it from me. If the doctor says don’t dive, don’t dive.” I made my tone as grim as possible, using all the wisdom I had achieved in forty-one years. Cal was prickly as hell and clearly didn’t like me, but for whatever reason, I felt invested in his well-being. Perhaps it was guilt over not pushing harder for him to take a buddy or team down with him. There was also this strange fluttery feeling where I cared what happened to someone who was little more than a stranger. “I learned the hard way to listen to people smarter than me.”
“Huh.” Cal made a thoughtful noise, which was better than him dismissing my advice outright. “What happened to you?”
I’d been expecting that question. New people always wanted to know why I used a wheelchair, even non-chatty stoic sorts like Cal. My chair was basically a big question mark, and everyone from little kids to senior citizens felt entitled to ask. And this time, I’d more or less invited the inquiry by referencing lessons I’d learned. Cal wasn’t an idiot. He’d known what I meant. Even so, I couldn’t stop my heavy sigh.
“The short story? I was a dumbass newly minted detective who thought he knew better than everyone else.” I kept my tone as clipped as Cal’s had been earlier. He wasn’t the only one with topics he’d rather not talk about.
“Sorry. I get it. You’re probably sick of sharing the longer version.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, that slight southern accent more apparent. “Everyone wants a story, and people have no problem asking you to show your scars, let them poke and prod.”
