12. Cara
Cara
Emily's still asleep when I finally let myself sit down properly, and I know because I've checked through the small window in her door often enough that one of the nurses has started giving me the look reserved for anxious relatives and people who don't understand visiting hours.
Technically I'm neither. I'm also not leaving.
The surgeon told us forty minutes ago that the bullet passed through soft tissue and missed everything that would have made tonight unsurvivable.
Emily lost a frightening amount of blood, needed surgery, and will probably swear at every one of us when she wakes up and finds out how long recovery's going to take, but she's alive.
Alive should feel bigger than it does. Relief keeps arriving in slow waves instead of all at once, like my body's still waiting for someone to walk in and tell us they were wrong.
Frankie sits beside me with one leg tucked under her and a paper cup of coffee she's reheated twice without drinking. Sarah's curled into the chair on my other side, still in the clothes we left the compound in.
Ice Pick's been standing at the end of the corridor since we got here. Every time I look up he's doing something slightly different, checking his phone, talking to hospital security, walking to the vending machines, but he never goes far enough that we can't see him.
Protection without hovering. Apparently the Saint’s Outlaws are capable of learning.
Falcon comes into my head before I can stop him, and I push him straight back out, because I've spent too much of today thinking about him when Emily's the one lying in a hospital bed because a bullet came through a wall.
Frankie notices the exact moment my expression goes blank.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says.
I glance at her. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The thing where your face empties because whatever you’re thinking is horrible, and you don’t want us to know,” Frankie explains.
Sarah lifts her head from my shoulder. “She does do that.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter. “I’ve developed an entire team of observers.”
“You created us,” Sarah points out.
I narrow my eyes at her. “That sounds threatening.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she says quietly.
Frankie shifts in her chair to face me properly. “What are you blaming yourself for?”
“Nothing,” I answer too quickly.
Both women stare at me.
“Fine,” I surrender. “Emily.”
Frankie’s forehead creases. “What about her?”
“If we’d moved everyone into the office instead of using the zones, Emily wouldn’t have been near that wall,” I explain.
“We designed the plan together,” Frankie reminds me.
“I told everyone they could choose where they felt safest,” I say.
“Yes,” Frankie confirms.
“And Emily chose the living room,” I continue.
“Because she wanted to,” Sarah says firmly.
Because somebody has to carry it. The thought's so automatic it frightens me, because that's exactly what I keep telling Falcon he does. If something goes wrong he searches for the place he could've changed it, the turn he could've taken, the door he should've been standing beside.
I hate how easily I understand it. That doesn't make it healthy.
"The plan did keep people safer," Frankie says. "It didn't make the house bulletproof."
"It should have." I know that’s a stupid thought.
"No." Frankie is firm enough that I finally look at her. "This is exactly what you've been telling Falcon."
That hurts.
"You cannot remove every risk from someone's life," she says. "You can give them information, choices, support, and better plans. You cannot control where a bullet lands."
"I know."
She raises an eyebrow, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of catching myself using the phrase yet again.
Frankie notices the exact moment my expression goes blank.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says.
I glance at her. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The thing where your face empties because whatever you’re thinking is horrible, and you don’t want us to know,” Frankie explains.
Sarah lifts her head from my shoulder. “She does do that.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter. “I’ve developed an entire team of observers.”
“You created us,” Sarah points out.
I narrow my eyes at her. “That sounds threatening.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she says quietly.
Frankie shifts in her chair to face me properly. “What are you blaming yourself for?”
“Nothing,” I answer too quickly.
Both women stare at me.
“Fine,” I surrender. “Emily.”
Frankie’s forehead creases. “What about her?”
“If we’d moved everyone into the office instead of using the zones, Emily wouldn’t have been near that wall,” I explain.
“We designed the plan together,” Frankie reminds me.
“I told everyone they could choose where they felt safest,” I say.
“Yes,” Frankie confirms.
“And Emily chose the living room,” I continue.
“Because she wanted to,” Sarah says firmly.
It's the first time I've smiled since the surgeon came out. It lasts only a few seconds, but it counts.
Footsteps approach from the end of the corridor, and Ice Pick turns before any of us do. Rook appears carrying two bags and enough drink holders to open a coffee shop.
"Harrier?" Ice Pick asks, taking one bag off him.
"Who else. Threatened to disown me twice if I spilled anything."
Frankie sits up. "Coffee?"
"Apparently that's what Falcon was told you wanted." Rook sets the bags on the low table. "There’s sandwiches, fruit, water, coffee, and whatever this is."
Frankie opens the container, and her entire face brightens. “Brownies.”
“He told me Harrier packed hospital food,” Ice Pick says, sounding personally betrayed.
“Brownies are hospital food,” Frankie insists.
Ice looks at her. “According to who?”
“Women,” she answers as if that settles the matter.
I accept the coffee Rook offers because refusing it feels ridiculous at this point.
“Did Falcon send all this?” I ask, hating how much I want to know.
Rook chooses his words carefully. “He asked what you needed. Ice Pick sent the list, and Harrier handled the food.”
I curl both hands around the coffee cup. “Falcon isn’t coming?”
“No,” Rook confirms quietly.
Something twists in my chest, and I can't tell if it's relief or disappointment. Both, probably.
"He's at the compound," Ice Pick says. "On the fence line, Rook's got him on rotation."
Good, that’s exactly where he should be. I told him I needed space, and he's giving it to me, but apparently getting exactly what you ask for can still hurt.
Sarah's already found something in the second bag, pulling out a black hoodie. "This mine?"
Rook checks his phone. "Medium?"
"Yes." She turns it over. There's a Saint’s Outlaws patch stitched on the front, and her fingers still on it for a second.
"We can get a different one," Rook says quickly.
"No, this is fine." She pulls it over her head. It's too big for her, but she smiles anyway, and nobody gave her that patch, nobody claimed her, it's just a hoodie, except the distinction between those two things mean more than it should.
Rook looks at Sarah. “It looks better on you.”
Ice Pick turns toward him. “Was that flirting?”
“With Sarah?” Rook looks horrified. “She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“You don’t have a daughter,” Ice points out.
“That isn’t relevant,” Rook replies.
Sarah laughs, and the sound carries down the corridor far enough that a nurse glances over, and all four men in the room drop their voices at once without being asked to.
Rook stays long enough to give Ice Pick an update I try not to eavesdrop on and then decide is ridiculous to pretend I'm not owed.
"Anything new?" I ask him directly.
Rook looks at me instead of Ice Pick, waiting for permission before he continues. I give him a small nod.
“The north fence has been repaired, and the cameras have been replaced,” Rook reports. “Condor believes whoever attacked the house used the same jammer as the earlier outage.”
“Do you know who they are?” I ask.
“Not for certain,” Rook answers. “We have a better idea now, but Vulture wants it confirmed before he says more.”
“No.” I hold Rook’s gaze. “I don’t want another situation where the club decides the information is too uncertain to share until you’re completely sure.”
He considers my objection before nodding. “I get that.”
Ice Pick pushes off the wall. "We think it's connected to whatever's left of the trafficking network."
Every muscle in my body goes tight. Sarah's laughter's gone. Frankie sets her sandwich down.
"How much is left?" I ask.
"That's the problem. We don't know."
Castellano's dead. The operation we knew about got dismantled. I wanted that to mean something final. Of course it doesn't, because men who profit off women don't vanish because one monster does. There's always somebody willing to take his place.
"They hit Falcon and the compound at the same time," Ice Pick says. "That wasn't random."
My heart reacts to his name again, and I ignore it. "They wanted the men away from the house."
"Yes." Ice Pick nods his head.
"Did they know Falcon would leave?" I ask.
"We don't think so. They knew somebody would collect the medication. The pharmacy account was compromised."
I feel sick. Rachel's prescription, something that ordinary, was used to create an opening.
"They're watching everything," I say, half to myself.
"We're assuming they can, until Condor proves otherwise."
Frankie crosses her arms. "Medical information too?"
"Knox is dealing with that now. Nobody at the club sees your records, but whoever accessed the pharmacy system may have seen Rachel's."
Anger's easier than fear, so I let it come. "What happens when Emily leaves the hospital?"
"We plan with you," Ice Pick says. Not for you. With. They're starting to understand.
"Good."
Rook leaves a few minutes later, and Frankie and I sit with our thoughts after that, Sarah’s eating half a sandwich, Frankie’s eating an entire brownie and lying about only having half of it, my coffee is going cool in my hands.
Falcon sent coffee. No, Falcon asked what was needed and Harrier sent coffee. Words matter, especially tonight.
Sarah brushes the crumbs from her lap. “Can I ask you something?”