29. Vaughn
TWENTY-NINE
VAUGHN
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment I was sitting in the chair beside Rowan’s bed, watching the monitor, listening to the rhythm of the machine that was telling me he was alive, and then something touches my head and I come up out of sleep fast.
I sit up to see Rowan.
His eyes are open.
They’re heavy with the weight of anesthesia from his life-saving surgery, but they’re open, and they’re finding me.
“Hey,” I say. My voice comes out wrong.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is rough and quiet, but right now it’s the best thing I’ve heard in my life.
I press the call button for the nurse and then I just take him in. At my son, awake, in a hospital bed, with a shoulder wound and an IV drip. He’s alive.
The nurse comes in quickly. “Good morning, Rowan. How are you feeling this morning?”
“This isn’t the best hotel I’ve stayed at, but if you bring me coffee in bed, I’ll give you a good rating.”
The nurse laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t do that or this machine is going to make a lot of noise, and I’m not gonna lie, it makes it really hard to take naps in the nurse’s station with all the noise.
” She checks the monitors and asks Rowan questions to assess his cognition and response.
Rowan answers all of them slowly but correctly.
She adjusts something on the IV, makes a note, tells us the surgeon will be in for morning rounds, and leaves.
I sit back on the chair, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry.
“This is the most scared I’ve ever been in my life,” I say. “In my entire life. Including the time you were three and you went missing in the supermarket for eleven minutes.”
The corners of Rowan’s mouth valiantly twitch in a struggle of a smile. “You found me in the cereal aisle.”
“You were eating directly from a box of Fruity Pebbles,” I say. “You weren’t even sorry.”
“They were good,” he says.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
“Dad,” he says.
I run my hand through his hair. “Just let me fuss over you for a minute.”
He doesn’t complain, which is telling from Mr. Brave.
“I’m of two minds,” I say, after a minute, “about demanding that you leave the FBI and move back in with me.”
Rowan makes a sound that is trying to be a laugh, but he’s reminded of his shoulder injury. He stops and breathes through the discomfort.
“That’s not happening,” he says when he can speak.
“I know.”
“It would be terrible for my sex life,” he says. “I’m not moving back in with my dad. I’m not leaving the FBI. I’m also not excited about hospital food, so if you could—”
“I’ll get you whatever you want,” I say. “When the surgeon says you can eat.”
He lets me fuss over him, which reminds me of how amazing of a person my son is.
“Dad,” he says eventually. “I need to tell you about my case.”
“Oh?”
“The one I got when I said I couldn’t come to the festival.
It came up with your name.” He pauses, working through the remnants of anesthesia, finding the words.
“An anonymous tip. Someone sent a package to the FBI with files, photographs, evidence of threats. Documented threats against you, specifically. I tried to make sense of it from Denver, but I needed to talk to you. That’s why I came. ”
“Rowan—”
A knock, then the door opens, and Dale Briggs enters the room.
“Good morning,” he says. “Both of you.”
“Dale,” I say.
He looks at Rowan. “Good to see you with your eyes open, son.
“I came by last night,” he says to me. “You were asleep, and Rowan was still in and out of consciousness. I didn’t want to wake either of you.” He pulls up a chair and sits down. “I have some news. Good news, mostly.”
“Tell me,” I say.
“We caught the man who shot Rowan. He’s in custody. Or he will be. He’s currently in this hospital, two floors up, under guard, and the moment he’s cleared for discharge he goes directly to a holding facility to await trial. Attempted murder of a federal agent. He’s not going anywhere.”
I exhale.
“The weapon used in the shooting has been recovered and sent for ballistic analysis,” Dale continues. “We expect it to match the bullet they took out of Rowan’s shoulder. And we also recovered Rowan’s service weapon.”
Rowan’s head comes up slightly. “My gun?”
“Your gun,” Dale confirms. “Silas took it when he saw the suspect moving in the crowd. He used it to pursue the shooter.”
Rowan stares at him.
“Silas chased him on foot through the side streets. He shot the suspect in the leg, engaged him physically and disarmed him. The suspect also fired at Silas during the pursuit. Silas sustained a graze wound to the arm.”
“Is Silas okay?” Rowan asks.
“He’s okay,” Dale says.
“Is the threat over?” I ask. “With this man in custody. Is it over?”
Dale turns to me. “The FBI has taken over the broader investigation,” he says.
“Given that a federal agent was shot and the threat connects to a corporate entity with federal-level implications, it’s out of my jurisdiction now.
But I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you, Rowan, and Silas are safe while the investigation runs its course.
I have a guard outside this room. I’ll have someone at the farm.
” He makes deliberate eye contact with me. “You’re not alone in this, Vaughn.”
“Thank you, Dale.”
He nods, then addresses Rowan. “Speedy recovery,” he says. “Your dad needs you in one piece.”
“Working on it,” Rowan says.
Dale stands, puts the chair back where he found it, and makes his departure.
The room settles again.
Rowan looks to me, but I turn to the window.
The morning light is coming through it now.
The sun is up and the birds are chirping.
I’ve been here all night, and the world has continued to run without me, and somewhere in that world Silas gave a statement to Dale and then left, and I don’t know where he is.
“Dad.”
“Mm?”
“You knew about the threat?”
“Yes. I should have told you. I get them all the time. When you work in a field where the research has monetary value, it’s a given, but it was never serious enough until recently.
That’s when I told Dale about it. Remember when that company, HelixGen, tried to take over the data-gathering project? ”
He nods.
“I asked Jordan to help me with this. From what you say you have in your case, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Jordan who sent the tip. Maybe that’s how it got to you and not another agent.”
“Dad … ”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He holds out his hand, and I take it, grateful to have his palm—a little cool, but full of life—in mine.
“Can I ask you about what I saw before I got shot? You and Silas were kissing.”
I’m unsure what to say. He was never meant to find out about us, but it seems all the secrets are coming out.
“Yes,” I say.
He’s quiet, like he’s processing it. Then, “Are you together?” he asks.
“It’s complicated.”
“It didn’t seem that complicated,” he says. “From what I saw. Which was admittedly only a few seconds before someone shot me, so my perspective might be limited.”
“Are you angry at me?” I ask, tentative.
“For kissing my best friend?”
“Yes.”
He scrunches up his nose.
“It’s a little weird,” he says finally. “I’m not going to pretend it isn’t a little weird. Silas is my best friend. You’re my dad. That’s— Yeah, that’s a little weird.”
“I know.”
“But,” he says, looking like he’s trying to hold in a laugh, “Silas has always been an old man at heart. He was twenty-two when I met him, and he acted like he was forty. When we were all together, you two always seemed to have these long conversations, and I never realized it, but it was almost like I wasn’t there. ”
“Nothing ever happened until now. I need you to know that. We tried to stay apart, but we couldn’t.”
“You have a young boyfriend, Dad,” he teases.
“He’s thirty-five.”
“Young,” Rowan sing-songs.
“Rowan—”
“Does he know where to buy the soft toothbrushes for your dentures?”
“Stop,” I whine.
He almost smiles. Then the almost-smile fades.
“You said it’s complicated,” he says. “Not that it’s over.”
Our hands are suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.
“Dad. What’s complicated about it?”
I think about the waiting room last night. About Silas standing in the middle of it, telling me things I still don’t know what to do with.
I was hired to kill you.
Everything that happened between us was real.
I think about all of it sitting in my chest, unprocessed, waiting for the space I haven’t had yet.
“There are things Silas needs to tell you,” I say. “Things about himself. About who he is. Things I found out last night that I’m still— It’s not my story to tell. It’s his.”
Rowan’s face is a mixture of confusion and worry.
“But it’s why things are complicated,” I say.
“Is he okay?” Rowan asks. “Is he safe?”
“Physically,” I say. “Yes, I guess.”
“Okay.”
“When he comes to see you, I’d like to not be here.”
Rowan squeezes my hand, as if to encourage me to explain.
“Not because I’m angry at him. I just need some time before I can be in the same room as him, and I don’t want to make it harder for you.”
Rowan says nothing for a moment.
“I’m getting sleepy again. I don’t like it. Can you ask the surgeon if I can have coffee?”
I chuckle, then hold his hand until he falls asleep again. The machines beep steadily, reminding me my son is still alive, breathing, and possibly about to turn into a coffee-deprived diva.