She had known for a while, but Daisy refused to acknowledge that. She kept the secret to herself: this one, itty bitty, insignificant secret. Knowing fought ruthlessly with believing, because Daisy couldn’t possibly be in love with Chelsea yet. She didn’t know Chelsea’s favorite color, or the way she liked her tea, whether she truly liked spicy food or just pretended to for Daisy’s sake.
But Daisy did know that Chelsea loved horror movies and never skipped dessert. She knew that Chelsea slept on her side and had nightmares she never talked about. She knew that Chelsea’s comfort food was a fish sandwich from McDonald’s and her favorite workout playlist had songs listed by the band she’d claimed to hate at the concert months ago.
Daisy knew that Chelsea was her own kind of secret, like a hornet moth, wearing the suit of an aggressive stinger-wielding insect but being itself harmless.
Daisy sighed and glanced at her phone again.
Aiden Maar 11/2 12:10 p.m.
What are you doing after work? wanna get drinks?
Daisy Yuen 11/2 12:11 p.m.
Dinner with chelsea then yes drinks lots of drinks
Aiden sent four thumbs-up emojis.
Javi cleared his throat from across the table. “You don’t have to tell her yet, you know.”
Daisy gathered in a breath and held it until her lungs ached. “If I don’t tell her now, I don’t know if I ever will.”
“Why do you think that?”
She sighed, thinking back to the night she’d felt it first, and all the times after that: Velvet, the morning after, August heat and lazy beach days, trying to sketch something and having Chelsea in charcoal on the page, the entirety of every interaction and the time between them, wondering if she deserved this, if it would last, if it was true, and realizing that the only reason she’d wondered was because she desperately wanted it to be.
“I don’t know if I’ll have the courage,” Daisy admitted.
Javi nodded and munched on a samosa. “You will. Fate doesn’t put us with people we stay scared of for very long.”
“It feels heavy,” Daisy whispered, remembering the conversation she’d had with Aiden last spring. She hadn’t understood then, when he used the word “heavy” to describe loving Shannon, but now she knew. It was not heaviness like lifting cement blocks or picking your foot up out of thick mud. This heaviness was the same feeling Daisy had when she swam too deep. She kicked and pawed at the water trying to get to the surface, and in the moment right before she breached—sun shining off the waves above, heat building in her throat—there was the anticipation of a gasp, of fresh air, of being able to breathe again.
Loving Chelsea was that kind of heavy.
Javi chose to change the subject and said, “You finish that instance expansion yet?”
Daisy shook her head. She thought about Chelsea’s cheekbones and the slender fit of her knuckles between Daisy’s fingers. “Not yet,” she said, and cleared her throat.
The heaviness stayed put, anchoring itself to every bone in her body. She felt it when she stretched out her hand. It made itself known when she curled her toes.
Chelsea was all over her. She was everywhere.
Shannon was typing a text to Aiden when Karman appeared beside him with a bulletproof vest in her hand.
“Put it on.” She shoved it at his chest. “We’re leaving.”
“Is the team ready?” Shannon slid his phone into his pocket without hitting send. His thoughts spun, going every which way around a situation he’d been assured wouldn’t be a situation at all, one he was thrilled to be finished with. We’ll have backup. It’ll be fine. It’s not even a real raid. “Are you ready for this?”
Karman snorted. Her bronze skin looked lighter against her black-on-black tactical uniform. It matched her hair, which she was currently slicking into a tight bun on the back of her head. Even for a raid, Karman looked perfect. Her crimson lips were lined and her eyebrows filled. “Of course I’m ready, Wurther. Let’s get this shit over with. It’s been a long time coming.”
Shannon put the vest on. He adjusted his holster, unclipped it, clipped it again.
Before he forgot, he took out his phone.
Shannon Wurther 11/2 1:14 p.m.
Heading out. Text you when I’m done.
Aiden Maar 11/2 1:15 p.m.
you better
He smiled at his phone.
“Van’s ready,” Karman shouted.
Shannon put his phone away and took a deep breath.
The gun on his waist felt like an anvil.
Chelsea Cavanaugh 11/2 1:56 p.m.
Work is hell today
Daisy Yuen 11/2 1:57 p.m.
Sorry, that sucks
Chelsea Cavanaugh 11/2 1:59 p.m.
What should we do for dinner tonight? It’s your turn to pick.
Daisy Yuen 11/2 2:06 p.m.
We could do Coyote Grill
Chelsea Cavanaugh 11/2 2:07 p.m.
What do they have?
Daisy Yuen 11/2 2:07 p.m.
Mexican Baja-ish you’ll like it
Chelsea Cavanaugh 11/2 2:08 p.m.
All right
The dilapidated house on the outskirts of Santa Ana seemed to be home to cockroaches rather than people. A couch, stripped of its cushions and riddled with burn marks, sat on the lawn. An old, broken chair sat on the porch.
“There’s no car,” Shannon noted.
Karman shrugged. “They had eyes on him. Mortez is in there and so is his wife.” She turned to the rest of the team. “There could be others in the building. We’re taking a non-lethal approach, all right, everyone? We’re getting in, arresting a middle-aged female and a middle-aged man, and we’re getting out. After the arrests, we’ll do a substance sweep, clear?”
The five officers nodded.
“Let’s go,” Karman said.
The van door slid open. Karman leapt out first, followed by two officers, Shannon, and the other three.
Shannon’s heart drummed in his throat. Adrenaline poured into his veins, telling him to turn around, to wait, to stop. He ignored it. Fear was a natural response, an easy way to avoid a situation that called for bravery.
But Shannon Wurther was brave, and this was his job, and they were going to close this case today.
An officer kicked the door in.
Shannon swallowed hard as he drew his gun.
Karman rushed in, and he followed, listening to the other officers’ call-outs as they swept room after room.
Clear. Clear.
Clear.
“Stay where you are!” Karman’s voice.
The world stopped turning. Something buried inside him said go back.
“Put it down!” Karman’s voice again.
Shannon walked around the corner with his gun raised.
The Mortez couple stood in front of them. He didn’t pay attention to them, but to their guns, trembling in two nervous grips.
Shannon didn’t see it coming—how didn’t he see it coming?
A mess of voices: first Karman’s don’t move, then his own get down, and last, a voice, or maybe just a sound, ruptured by the feeling that came after hearing it. His arm slammed against Karman’s chest. Karman hit the wall when he shoved her behind him.
One bullet slammed into him. Another.
“Shannon!” He heard Karman’s voice.
Two officers fired. Pop. Pop. Shannon flashed on the Fourth of July, on sitting between Aiden’s legs on the beach and looking at the sky. Pop. Pop. Pop. That’s what gunshots sounded like when slowed down—fireworks.
“We need an ambulance!”
The ceiling stared down at him.
“Shannon! Hey, Shannon, look at me.” Karman was breathing hard. Her hands were on his face. She whipped toward the door. “Officer down!”
Oh, so this is what it’s like.
He looked at his fingertips, and they were red, red, red.
In the last two hours, the hospital had seen three car accident victims, a man with a nail through his hand, a woman with an infected post-surgery knee wound, and two kids with broken bones.
Chelsea was ready to hang up her white coat and meet Daisy for dinner, but the hospital had her for another four hours. She worked on a few of the charts stacked next to a computer at the RN station, going over patient needs, symptoms, medications, the works.
She tapped the nurse managing the station on the shoulder. “Honey, have we run a full blood panel on this patient?”
The nurse opened her mouth, but the phone rang. “One second, Dr. Cavanaugh.” She picked it up and pressed it to her ear. “This is nurse—okay, yes.” The nurse’s demeanor snapped from casual to urgent. “Yes, I understand; we’re preparing a room. Do we have a name?” She scribbled on a notepad. “Understood, yes, yes.” She glanced at Chelsea. “We have a surgeon on standby.”
“What was that?” Chelsea asked, arching a brow.
“We have an officer coming in with a gunshot wound to his lower abdomen. They’re having a hard time keeping him stable. He’ll be coming in through Emergency.”
“Did you get a name?” Chelsea put down the chart she’d been holding and waited.
There were hundreds of officers. There were hundreds of names.
“Twenty-six-year-old male and it’s Wurther, ma’am.”
The world stopped turning. It creaked to a stop as it had many times—the first time her father had hit her, the first time she’d fallen off her horse and smacked the ground, the first time she’d kissed Daisy—it was all the same feeling turned upside down.
“Dr. Cavanaugh?” The nurse touched Chelsea’s hand. “They’ll need you down there. Are you all right?”
Chelsea didn’t answer. She forced her legs to move, even though she was walking in slow motion, as if gravity had suddenly turned against her.
It’s a different officer. It’s a different cop. It’s a different person. It’s a different Wurther.
She didn’t see the hallways pass, or the elevator doors shut.
She saw Karman’s hair falling out of its bun and her fingers wrapped around a limp hand. She saw the paramedics and the blood on their clothes. She saw Shannon on the gurney, and she heard her voice being shouted.
“Dr. Cavanaugh, we need you in here now!” The nurse calling her name guided the paramedics into a room. “Dr. Cavanaugh!”
Karman stared at her, shaking and trying to breathe. She said, “Chelsea, please,” and it sounded like everyone who had ever said those words to her, screaming them.
Chelsea darted into the room after the gurney, steeled her nerves, swallowed her fear, stopped the tears before they had a chance to make themselves known.
Damn you, Shannon.
She barked an order. “Get him on the table!”
“You’re still home?” Daisy put her purse on the kitchen counter.
Aiden nodded, holding Mercy under his chin. “I’m off tonight. I’m thinking about working on some of the pictures I took this summer.”
“Can I see?” Daisy beamed. She pulled her ID badge over her head and shoved it in her purse. “Are you doing the Art Walk thing? Tell me you’re doing it. You have to do it, Aiden.”
“I’m not sure yet.” Staring at his phone, he scrolled up and down. A stitch of worry pulled his brows together.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shannon hasn’t texted me when he said he would.”
She smirked, rolled her eyes, and nudged Aiden with the side of her hand. “C’mon, you guys don’t actually keep tabs on each other, do you?”
“We do when Shannon’s doing something crazy at work,” Aiden said. His voice wasn’t sarcastic or scathing; he said it simply, roughly, as if it was the most obvious thing he’d ever said. “He’s a cop. He takes these shitty cases and—”
Aiden’s phone vibrated, but he didn’t answer it. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink or breathe.
“That’s probably him.”
Aiden blinked once, staring at his phone. “It’s Karman.”
Realization whispered to her as soon as Aiden said Karman’s name. Its awfulness swelled until the phone in Aiden’s hand stopped vibrating.
Aiden’s fear salted the room.
Something is terribly wrong.
The phone rang again. Daisy grabbed it.
“Karman, it’s Daisy.” She waited to hear oh, it’s me in Shannon’s voice. My phone died, where’s Aiden? But it wasn’t Shannon’s voice.
Aiden’s wide brown eyes stared back at her. She saw the moment recognition slid into place, the time between his lashes fluttering and his breath coming short, his throat clenching and his chest shuddering.
“Where is he?” Aiden choked.
Daisy didn’t know how she’d mustered the bravery to speak. “Newport Hoag.”
Aiden grabbed his helmet. He didn’t shut the door when he left.
“Wait! Aiden, I’ll drive you! Hold on!” Daisy scrambled for her purse, her keys, herself, her thoughts.
She replayed. Shannon was shot. Newport Hoag.
And the last: Chelsea has him.
Chelsea told herself that the man on the table wasn’t Shannon, that he was another man, another officer, another patient. She told herself that this was a standard emergency surgery. She said to herself as loudly as she could, Chelsea Cavanaugh, you have got to pull it together.
“Steady those hands, doctor!” The head nurse said, handing Chelsea the forceps.
There’s internal bleeding. She couldn’t shape the words. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Shannon’s chest heaved once, twice.
“He’s bleeding internally,” she forced out. “Looks like the bullet went through his liver. Clamps.” A nurse handed her a slender pair of steel clamps. “The bullet fractured. Beginning removal.”
The monitors on the other side of the bed next to the anesthesiologist beeped and buzzed, alerts frantically sputtered.
Chelsea made the mistake of looking at Shannon’s face. His lashes fluttered. His mouth slackened.
“Patient’s crashing! Doctor, charging defibrillator.” A nurse beside Chelsea applied gel to two places below his collarbone. “Make the call!”
A nurse shouted out the door. “Code blue! We need hands in here! Code blue!”
Nurses rushed in, pulling masks over their mouths, shouting to one another. Chest compressions. Defibrillator charging. Shot of adrenaline on standby. Too much blood loss.
The monitor that recorded Shannon’s heart beat screamed and screamed. Chelsea had heard that sound many times. She’d heard it in movies; she’d heard it in situations identical to this one—standing over a bed, a patient dying, thinking you can’t save them all. But this one had to be saved. This one had to live.
Chelsea prayed to whoever or whatever was listening.
“Shannon…” She exhaled his name; her hot breath was suffocated in the white mask strapped over her mouth.
“Doctor, charges ready.”
“Go for two.” Chelsea hoped she sounded confident. “One.” She took a step back, a nurse pressed the paddles against Shannon’s chest, and his body jumped. Chelsea’s eyes watered. Her hands shook. The monitor showed a flat line. “C’mon Shannon, don’t you dare.” Chelsea looked at the nurse. “Two, once more, go.”
The nurse pressed the paddles down. Shannon’s body jumped.
A second went by. Another.
“We’ve got him,” someone said. The heart monitor beeped steadily.
Chelsea wanted to fall to her knees. “Resuming extraction,” she said, steadying
herself against the table. Her hands shook, but she grabbed the tool and dug into Shannon’s stomach, ignoring the red of his blood on her gloves.
Not today, Shannon. Chelsea swallowed hard and pawed at one eye with the back of her clean wrist.
“Dr. Cavanaugh, are you all right…?” Her nurse held the wound open, wiping it down with iodine between Chelsea’s movements.
“I’m fine,” Chelsea said softly.
She dropped the first piece of the bullet into a steel bowl.
“Just keep him steady. Keep him steady.”
26
Hospitals made Daisy hate her name.
Flowers in short vases and tall vases, glass containers and rectangular pots, sat next to IVs that craned over adjustable white beds, homes to people trying to breathe. She was walking and talking, putting one foot in front of the other as she made her way from the coffee stand in the lobby through ICU to the waiting room, but she couldn’t breathe either. The flowers made things brighter, but they didn’t make anything better. That’s how she felt—a pretty decoration in a black-and-white world.
Everything stopped moving. The world couldn’t inhale.
Her hands shook. She willed them to stop, which made it worse, and hot green tea splattered the top of her hand. She hit the button that opened the giant double doors and walked past closed room after closed room until she came to the closed room.
Keep walking.
She couldn’t.
Don’t look.
She looked.
Behind that closed room was another closed room, and in that closed room Chelsea was digging a bullet out of Shannon’s stomach.
“Daisy.”
She jumped, startled by her name as it slid out of Karman’s mouth.
“He won’t talk to anyone,” Karman said. She took both the hot cups, peeling them gently from Daisy’s shaking hands. “He won’t even look at me.”
“What did you expect?” Daisy’s voice felt like tinsel. It sounded like tinsel. She turned into an ornament, dangling on a branch on a Christmas tree. The tree was on fire. The branch was breaking. She was sailing toward the floor.
“I’m worried.”
“So am I.”
“No, Daisy, I don’t think you understand.”
Curved Horizon Page 22
