Chapter 2 #2
“What do you think, Tyler?” Eden asks, turning her gaze to the quietest member of the team. “Do you want to bowl this weekend? We’ll have pizza…”
Tyler gives Eden a warm smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Eden looks across the table at me. “Indy? You’ll come, right?” More softly, she adds, “I ordered a special ball that’s supposed to work with your prosthetic. If you want to bowl right-handed.”
My stomach knots. “I’m not sure...”
I know she’s trying to help. Just as she always has—from those early days in the hospital, when she badgered the doctors into giving her answers and spent weeks camped out by my bedside to the benefits she ran to raise enough money for my high-tech prosthetic.
She thinks I didn’t know about the fundraisers.
But I did. I just never said anything because I was in such denial about my amputation; I couldn’t bear to talk about it.
I just moped around my apartment in Silver Springs, dragging myself to my therapy sessions at the VA hospital because I knew Eden would find out if I didn’t.
And that would hurt Eden. It would make her worry even more about her clinically depressed brother, and I didn’t want that for her.
So when she pleaded with me to accept the upgraded prosthetic, I agreed. And I forced myself to learn how to use it.
Three years on, I’m thankful she pushed me. Because I can do almost anything with my prosthetic that I could with my old hand. I can lift weights. I can spar. I can even shoot with my modified Sig, if I’m willing to sacrifice a little accuracy.
I’m not, for the record. Once I dragged my head out of the proverbial sand and began to accept that I wasn’t the man I used to be, I taught myself how to shoot with my off-hand, and now I can hit a target at five-hundred yards just as well with my left as I used to with my right.
But bowling…
Eden’s eyes go sad as she watches me, waiting for my answer. “Nevermind,” she adds quietly. “It was a stupid idea.”
Beside her, Rafe rubs her shoulder.
Shit.
Eden’s so excited about this whole bowling thing. I don’t want to ruin it for her just because of my insecurity.
“That sounds awesome, Eeen,” I tell her. “I can’t wait to go bowling.” Then I smirk at her. “And I can’t wait to kick your ass at it.”
Her crinkled brow relaxes as she breaks into a smile. “I’ve been practicing. So we’ll see.”
Rafe flashes me a quick look, and with it, a silent question.
Are you sure?
Because as much as Rafe loves Eden, I know he has my back, too.
And if I really don’t feel comfortable using whatever adaptive bowling ball Eden’s come up with, he’ll cover for me.
He’ll insist on everyone bowling with their off-hand—as an extra challenge, or some such excuse—or he’ll gently explain to Eden later why having me bowl isn’t a good idea.
But I’m not going to take the out.
I did that for long enough.
So instead, I lift my chin at him before saying to Eden, “Oh, we’ll see, alright. And I bet you fifty bucks I’ll win.”
“Fifty bucks?” Tyler asks. “I’ll take that bet.” His gaze slides over to me. It’s dark with understanding. “But my money’s on Indy.”
“Maybe I’ll get in some practice time tonight,” I muse. “Get ready for my big win on Saturday.” After a beat, I add thoughtfully, “I wonder what I’ll do with my money once I—”
But I’m interrupted by the unexpected sound of my phone buzzing.
Unexpected because the people who would usually be texting are sitting at the table with me.
And my mother never texts, complaining that it’s too impersonal.
She prefers calling, and it’s always on Sunday night, unless I’m away on a job.
The text isn’t coming from anyone I talk to regularly, because they all have their own ringtones. Anyone in Blade and Arrow—the guys in the original New York branch or the one in Texas—has a special one. Same with my old Green Beret teammates, like Beau, Fox, Chris, and Walker.
So who could it be?
A spam number trying to convince me to buy an extended warranty? Or some other equally fraudulent scam?
With a small sigh, I pull my phone from my pocket and ask, “Okay, what do you think? A warranty on my car? Or do I owe back tolls from the last time I drove on a highway?”
Ace chuckles. “It could be a package you need to claim. I’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”
“I got a job offer via text yesterday,” Tyler says. Sarcasm tinges his voice as he adds, “Great opportunity. A hundred bucks an hour to start. And all I had to do was give them my license and social security number.”
But it’s none of those.
Instead, it’s a text from John, a guy I met back at the VA hospital in DC. We used to chat while waiting for our PT appointments, and while we don’t talk often, one of us will shoot off a text every six months or so just to see how the other is doing.
But I just heard from John at Christmas. So why is he texting less than a month later?
As I skim the first message of several, my confusion only grows.
Do you still keep up with DC news?
I click to the next one.
Just saw this. She used to be your PT, too, right? Crazy, isn’t it?
My PT? Why is he bringing up my physical therapist from three years ago?
Not just my PT, but the woman I’ve tried to put out of my mind in the years since?
Then I open the third message, which is a link to a post on a local DC news outlet, and I realize why.
The headline proclaims, Physical Therapist at VA Hospital Arrested in Gruesome Murder, and beside it is a grainy photo of the PT in question.
I’m so shocked, I actually jolt in my seat.
It’s Bea.
Beatrix, really. But she insisted we all call her Bea. “My mother loved Peter Rabbit,” she explained at the start of our first appointment, “so she convinced my father to name me Beatrix. But I prefer to go by Bea, if that’s okay with you.”
I’m not sure how old the photo is, but she looks just as I remember her.
Smiling, her bright blue eyes crinkled up at the corners, her blonde hair falling in a golden curtain around her face, and she just has this glow about her.
A cheerful glow that used to make me feel all itchy and grouchy whenever I’d show up to my PT appointments but would inexplicably miss once they were over.
As I start reading the article, my brain wants to resist what I’m seeing.
Beatrix Howe accused of murder. Second degree at the minimum, but charges could be escalated to first-degree murder after further investigation.
Allegedly, she killed one of the other physical therapists at the hospital during a grisly knife attack.
Motive isn’t mentioned, but there’s a clear implication that the attack was planned.
The very thought of sweet Bea killing someone is so unbelievable, I have to skim through the article again.
Not Bea. There’s no way. Not Bea with the endless patience and ready smiles, who never, ever got mad even when I gave her every reason to be. Not the Bea who would bring in samples of food she cooked at home for all her patients, insisting she didn’t mind sharing since she lived alone.
She really shouldn’t have told people that. A young woman—she was thirty back then—telling near strangers that she lived alone? Practically inviting someone with nefarious intentions to hurt her?
But she brushed off my gruff warnings with another of her sunny smiles. “My apartment building has good security,” she assured me, “and I trust my patients. None of them would ever want to hurt me.”
I sincerely doubt the security at her apartment building is even close to adequate. And it wouldn’t be hard for someone to follow her home, find a way inside the building, and attack her.
Someone attacking Bea? That, unfortunately, could happen. But Bea killing someone? When she’s dedicated her life to helping people heal?
“Indy.” Eden’s worried voice pulls me back to the present. “Is everything okay?”
Dragging my attention away from the article, I look up to find five sets of eyes regarding me with concern.
“Did something happen?” Rafe asks.
“What?” I give myself a quick mental shaking. “Why would you ask?”
“Because you look like you just saw a ghost,” Eden replies. “And you’ve been staring at your phone for the last two minutes without saying a word.”
A quick glance around the table shows my new teammates sitting at attention, their postures stiff and a wariness to their expressions.
“Is it one of the guys?” Rafe digs around in his pocket, but comes up empty. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I left my phone at the house.” Alarm flickers in his eyes. “Is it Walker? Chris? Fox—”
I shake my head. “No. It doesn’t have anything to do with them. It’s something different.”
Eden frowns. “What, then? Because whatever it is, it doesn’t seem good.” She pauses. “Unless… I’m sorry. Am I pushing? It’s probably none of my business. You just looked—”
“It was a text from a guy I met in DC. At the hospital. He sent me an article and… Shit. I just can’t believe it.”
“Can’t believe what?”
Everyone at the table leans forward.
I glance back down at my phone. “The physical therapist I used to see.”
“Bea?” Eden asks. “I remember meeting her. She was so nice.”
Something large and heavy lodges in my chest. “Yeah. Bea.” After a beat, I elaborate, “Beatrix. She was my PT at the VA hospital. And apparently, she’s being accused of murder. That’s why John sent me the article. He couldn’t believe it. And… shit. I can’t believe it, either.”
Tyler whips out his phone and starts tapping away at the screen. Without looking up, he fires off questions. “What happened? What’s her name? When did the crime occur?”
“Her name is Beatrix Howe,” I tell him. “It looks like it happened”—I skim the beginning of the article again—“yesterday, around 6 PM Eastern. There aren’t many details, but it says the victim was killed in a knife attack. Another PT at the hospital.”
“Why can’t you believe it?” Ace asks. “People do crazy things. We all know that.”