by J. D. Dexter
“The only recovery I have left to do is get home, so I can do my own brand of healing. You know, like the last time I told you coming to hospital slowed me down.” I overexaggerate my words, hoping they get the hint that my being in the hospital will slow down my recovery, not improve it.
“Don’t pull that crap with me right now, Finley Marie. You were passed out on the floor from a gunshot wound my mother gave you. Not to mention the fact that I could see inside your body. You were coming to the hospital even if you hadn’t managed to heal Josh. For which I’m eternally grateful, by the way.” Brian’s gruff voice comes from the end of the bed.
“I’m very glad you healed me, and that I don’t have to be in here with you. I hate hospitals,” Josh offers, giving me a smile.
“But in all seriousness, Fin. Please don’t heal one of us before you heal yourself. I don’t know that any of us could handle you dying from that kind of heroics.” Josh shudders, his eyes wild with grief.
“Seconded,” Brian and Brent say in stereo. When did my boys become so in sync? It’s starting to weird me out a little.
“Well, I don’t know that you had the time for me to heal myself first, Josh. You had an even bigger hole in your body than I did in mine. Those hollow point bullets left a crater the size of a honeydew melon in your body. I’m just glad I was there to help you—you know, since it’s my fault Cynthia shot a gun anyway,” I tell him as I grab his hand again.
I lift his shirt just a little to see the fading pink of new skin over his hip bone. His Adonis line is still intact, so that’s something. I’ve never looked at any of my guys with lust, but I can always appreciate a nice body. And all three of my boys have better than nice bodies.
“You were not, are not, to blame for Mom’s crazy-town shooting, Finley Marie.” Brian’s shaking his finger at me like I’m a three-year-old.
“Oh really? I didn’t hear her yelling at anyone else about needing to be ‘taken care of.’ Nor did I hear her try to save her family from anyone but me. Pretty sure that makes it my fault.” I get out in a rush, the breath backing up in my throat. Hearing her screeching about saving her family from me floods my ears again.
“I know it’s not my fault she shot me, but it is my fault she thought she needed to protect all of you from me,” I sob out. I almost lost the most important people in my whole world.
Wave after wave of heartache washes over me, battering me in its wake. Tossing me under, pulling me down. Turning over onto my side, I pull my knees to my chest, and cry my heart out.
I’m lost in my anguish as I feel someone climb onto the bed with me, wrapping me in tough, comforting arms. I feel more hands on my legs, and a set covering my head. I surrounded by the people I can’t live without, and my being alive put them in danger from a crazy woman.
Huge, wracking sobs burn my chest. The arms wrapped around me pull me closer into the warm body behind me. The hands on my legs and head rub and pat in warm circles of love. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. It could have been minutes or hours. It doesn’t really matter, I’m just glad that we’re all still here together.
I finally wear myself out, and once again seek refuge in the black oblivion of my tired mind.
Chapter Seven
“Ms. Tindol?”
I’m pulled from sleep to find a stranger in my room. Only the faint glow of lights from the hallway filter into the room. The sky outside is black, not even the moon shining. The stranger’s clothes look like he’s slept in them for an entire week, and the fatigue is plainly evident on his face. He appears to be in his mid- to late-forties.
“Ms. Tindol?” He clears his throat. “I’m with the Wichita Police Department. I need to speak with you.”
He flips the switch next to the door, the harsh light drilling into my brain as it washes through the room. He turns to close the door behind him.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m Finley Tindol,” I tell him. “But you already know that.” I shake my head, trying to get the cobwebs out. “Sorry. What can I help you with…”
“Detective Wallace, Max Wallace.”
“I’ll try to answer everything I can, Detective Wallace.” Pushing the button to lift the back of my bed, I hoist myself up a little higher. Talking to strange men while I’m lying down covered only in a thin hospital gown and itchy blanket is not my idea of safe and secure.
“Do you need some help?” He offers, his hand held out.
“No, I’m good.” Even the thought makes me recoil. “Thank you though.”
“Of course. Can you tell me what happened?”
I take a deep breath. “I went over to my best friend’s cousin’s house for family dinner. We ate some Italian food and had a family discussion after dinner. At one point, I needed my phone, which I had left out in the foyer in my purse. I walked out to get my phone and found Cynthia going through my purse. I confronted her about it. The confrontation must have alerted the boys.”
“The boys?” He interrupts.
“Brian, Brent, and Josh. And Brian and Brent’s father, Mark.”
“Okay. Please continue.”
I try to swallow, my throat dry from all of the crying, and I can barely make my mouth work right.
Coughing a little, I hold up a hand. “I need something for my throat, I’m sorry.” I lean over and discover I only have lukewarm water where my ice chips had been. I turn back to look at him, catching a penetrating, speculative look that makes something inside me pay closer attention.
He notices my look and quickly wipes his expression clear of everything but professional politeness. “I’ll get the nurse to get you something. Just a second.” He opens the door, leans out, and gets someone’s attention. “I need something for the patient’s throat please.” I hear an answering murmur.
“She’s getting you something. We can either wait for her to get back, or you can keep going. Up to you,” he says. He shuts the door once again.
“I’ll keep going as long as I can.” I try swallowing again with little improvement. Something about this man makes me want him out of my personal space as quickly as possible.
“She lied to my face, which is something I can’t stand. I even had proof that she was lying. She kept backing up like she was scared of me, so I stayed where I was. I wasn’t trying to upset her or scare her. The boys showed up and she started talking about crazy things. After following her crazy butt into her study, she showed me all kinds of surveillance photos of me. She kept ranting and raving.”
“All of a sudden, she pulled a gun from her desk drawer, and pointed it at me. I’m not really sure what happened, because everything feels like a blur. But suddenly there was a loud bang and I felt a burn across my side. And Josh and I were falling. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the hospital.” I’ve left some things out, but I’m not sure what the boys have told him, and I’m certainly not telling him that I’m capable of healing myself or others.
“What were you discussing in your family meeting?” he asks. His focus fixed on his little worn black notebook. His fingers are clenched around his pen.
I’m confused and a little angry about the question. What could he possibly need with that information?
“I’m not sure how that applies.”
“Just trying to get a better picture.” He’s looking at me like I’m a bug under a microscope. His eyes and mouth are pinched around the edges. His intensity is ratcheting up those weird vibes.
“Well, we were discussing family issues, Detective. That’s all I’m going to say right now.”
“Alright.” His flash of anger is so quickly suppressed, I think I imagined it. “You had no idea Cynthia had a gun?”
“None whatsoever. She’s never expressed any interest when we’ve gone to the shooting range or gun shows.” I’m still wondering where she got the gun from. It wasn’t one I recognized.
“You know how to handle a firearm?” The way he keeps asking me non-relevant questions makes me wonder what he’s really trying
to learn. His questions are making me feel like he’s after something else entirely.
“Yes.” Short, sweet, and to the point. I want this interview over and done with as quickly as possible.
“Do you own a firearm, Ms. Tindol?”
Why does he need to know that?
“Yes.” My tone of voice is cold now.
Where are the boys? Why aren’t they here? This is one of those time that I wish telepathy were really a thing. I would have had my boys there in a heartbeat.
Something must have showed in my face because his expression loses the harsh edge and smooths out into more pleasant lines. I look at him through the Spectrum and see a muddy wash of browns, oranges, and yellows: he’s hiding something, but he’s also really eager. Like bordering on fantasy fulfillment eager.
“Can I see some identification, detective?” I ask, my tone hard. I want this man as far away from me as possible.
“Of course.” He moves one of his hands into his inner pocket, and his Spectrum spikes into harsh reds.
“HELP!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I move to jump out of the hospital bed as a couple nurses come running toward the room.
He pulls a gun from inside his jacket, a small black cylinder on the end. He points it at the nurse who throws open the door, making her stumble to a stop “Don’t come any closer,” he says, his voice flat and unemotional.
While he’s looking at the nurse, I rip the IV line out of my arm. The streak of fire adds to my rage. Kicking my legs, I fling myself over the side rail of the bed. Unfortunately, it’s the side closest to the fake detective—stupid life-saving machines!
Thank goodness I’d already healed myself. Although I think I’ve probably torn some stitches if the pulling and snagging heat in my skin is any indication.
Faster than I can blink, he’s got the gun pointed in my direction. “We’re not done, Finley.”
The piercing sound of an alarm breaks into the relative quiet of the room; he doesn’t jerk at all at the harsh tones. The sound makes me jump, adding more chaos to an already intense situation.
I can hear more feet thundering down the hall. I turn to look for help.
“Finley!” Brian’s bellow reaches me from behind a wall of nurses in the hallway.
My heart clenches at the terror stamped into his face.
In a blink, the detective whips out a hand and wraps it around my arm, jerking me to my feet, pressing me in front of him just as Brian’s giant frame pushes through the line of nurses.
I feel the cold brush of metal against the side of my head. Still looking at everything around me through the Spectrum, I see the fear washing over Brian, the nurses, and other people in the hallway outside my room.
Wrapping my hands around the gunman’s arm to help keep my balance, I realize I can still see him in my mind, even though he’s behind me. I close my eyes, trying to see into my captor in a way I’ve never imagined possible.
After a couple of seconds, the murky outline of his body emerges as a blurry gray color. All of the colors of the rainbow ebb and flow in gentle pulses and waves. It’s almost like seeing someone through thermal imaging instruments. In my mind’s eye, I can see different areas where the colors sluggishly throb, and other spots where the colors flash like a strobe light.
I have a fifty-fifty shot of getting out of here alive.
I make a choice and pray that I’ve made the right one. Concentrating a little harder, shutting out the yelling and shouting in the room around me, I send pulses of energy to those areas that are slowly throbbing. Soon they begin to strobe, and I see the resulting color spike as the body behind me begins to overheat—at least in terms of color. His body is soon washed in piercing reds, flaming oranges, and blazing yellows.
The arm holding me firm across the chest begins to tremble. The even breathing in my ear becomes rapid panting. Watching the colors swirl is strangely calming, even with a gun to my head.
I watch from behind my eyelids as an insidious black ribbon begins to overtake the pulsating rainbow of the man behind me. Piercing screams fill my ears as the weight of my attacker suddenly falls away. The sounds snap my eyes open in shock. The screams are quickly muffled by hands over gaping mouths.
I turn around, switching my vision, and see the once tired and worn man is now strikingly beautiful—if you discount the blood flowing from his eyes, ears, and nose, and pooling on the cold tile floor beneath his dead body in an ever-widening puddle. I take a quick step out of the way, not wanting my bare feet to get covered in blood. Again.
Chapter Eight
“Finley!”
My lungs are crushed and breathing is difficult as I’m swung up into Brian’s arms. I can feel him trembling all over.
The air rushing through the opening in my hospital gown sends goosebumps crawling over my skin. Just as I’m about to make a comment, I feel a heated blanket being settled over my back.
Brian sets me back down on the ground and pulls the blanket to cover me fully. His eyes are wide and a little crazy, his heavy breathing disturbing the small hairs around my face.
“Apparently, I can’t leave you alone at all. Ever again!” He whisper-shouts at me.
I can feel my own breath backing up in my throat again, a lump I can’t quite swallow. The pressure behind my eyes reaches its limit and tears begin to stream down my face once again. I lean forward and let Brian support my weight as I break down once again.
Adrenaline jags – what’re you gonna do?
“Ms. Tindol.” A new voice breaks into the room behind me.
Giving a girly squeak that I can be embarrassed about later, I whirl around, ducking behind Brian. Peeking around my helpful giant, I see a man dressed in a bland suit with an equally bland tie. His hair is mussed, and he looks a little put out by my behavior.
“What?” Even I can hear the suspicion in my voice.
“My name is Detective Maxwell Wallace. I’m with WPD, homicide division.”
I quell a short shriek, his eyes popping wide.
Pointing a shaking finger at the distressingly handsome corpse, I manage to finally say, “That’s wh…what he said!” I wail at him.
Get it together, Finley. You sound like a hormonally-imbalanced teenager.
Brian turns around, giving the detective his back, and puts his hands on my shaking shoulders.
“Finley-babe, this is the detective who came to the house with the ambulance. He’s alright.” He wipes away the remaining tears off my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.
I’m not sure how many more surprises my emotions can take at this point. I feel like I’ve been worked over with a cheese grater.
“Promise?” I ask him quietly, feeling like a baby who needs to be sheltered.
“Promise. I’m not risking you again.” He leans down and kisses my sweaty forehead. “Back into bed. I think we need to get Dr. Dreamy back in here to look at you again. I’ll wait with you with the detective.”
“Okay. You aren’t allowed to leave.” I intertwine my fingers with his as he leads me back to the bed.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me fingers a light squeeze.
The nurses help me get all hooked back up—the stupid beeping starting up again. Brian stands near my head, my hand clasped in his.
I finally turn back to the detective. I’m not quite sure I can go through this again.
Get it together, you big baby. You survived your worst nightmare in college, this is going to be a cakewalk.
“Ms. Tindol, I really am from the Homicide Division in the Wichita Police Department. From your statement to Mr. Hastings, this attacker used my name to gain access to you. Is that correct?” Detective Wallace brow is so furrowed it looks like grooves permanently etched into his tired face.
“Yes, Detective. He told me his name is—was—Max Wallace with the Wichita Police Department. Although he didn’t say he was with the Homicide Division.” I shake my head.
That will teach me to be unfamiliar with police interr
ogation techniques.
“I’ll be asking you some preliminary questions, and then we’ll be moving you to a different room with a police protection detail.”
“Step aside, please. I need to examine my patient.” Dr. Jamison’s sexy baritone voice reaches me a couple seconds before I see his white-blond head.
The look of sympathy on his face and in his eyes brings tears to my own again.
I drop Brian’s hand. Bending my head, I bring my hands up to cover my face and tears. Brian’s arms encircle me from the side as I feel his head rest lightly against mine.
I’m exhausted, stressed, and Dr. Jamison is really hot.
I’m only a hot mess.
“Detective Wallace, good to see you again. I need to check on Ms. Tindol before I can allow any questions. She’s in recovery from a bullet wound. I’ll let you know when we get her moved so you can question her then.” Dr. Jamison’s acknowledgement of who Detective Wallace is soothes the ragged edges of my stressed brain. His little smile soothes the rest of my body.
“I’m sorry, I can’t leave the hospital before I’ve asked some questions. I’ll wait in the hallway while you do the examination. But I need to talk to her before she leaves this room, so I can get the best idea possible of what went on.” He leaves the room, taking a seat outside the door. He’s got his phone out and up to his ear before he makes it all the way into the seat.
“One down, five to go.” Dr. Jamison murmurs. He looks up at Brian.
“Don’t even think about trying,” Brian grunts at him.
“Had to give it a shot.” Dr. Jamison’s smirk makes me choke back a small laugh.
“Sarah, Joyce, Vanessa, and Derek: you guys can all go back to your stations. Make sure to fill out your own reports. I can take care of Ms. Tindol,” he says, his eyes locked with mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I seem them all troop out of the room like good soldiers.
“Alright, Mr. Hastings, if you’re staying, you can act as my nurse. I need you to hold Ms. Tindol’s gown up, so I can see if she’s done any more damage to her wound.” Walking to the small cupboard in the corner, he pulls out another gown, and opens it with a flick of his wrist.
