“How was the flight home?” I asked Ethan.
“Exhausting,” he replied. A new bruise darkened his jaw, and he was definitely paler than his usual Irish self.
“He almost crashed in the courtyard,” Aaron said with a protective growl. “Will you please tell him he can stop playing guard dog and go rest?”
“Stop playing guard dog and go rest,” I said. “I’m serious, Ethan, I’ve got this.”
Ethan actually looked a little grateful for the order. “Follow your own advice, Stretch, you look like hell.”
“I was born this way.”
He rolled his eyes, then let Aaron lead him toward the door.
“Ethan?” Thatcher said. He strode over to the pair and extended his hand. “Thank you for doing that. For getting Landon here.”
“You’re welcome.” Ethan shook his hand, then followed Aaron out.
Thatcher and I stood awkwardly in the middle of the waiting room, neither of us speaking. The soft rumble of voices behind the curtain droned on. I hoped Bethany would be ordered to get bed rest and be silent for a while, but I’ve never been that lucky. I also had the oddest urge to say something comforting to Thatcher. He was as tense as I’d ever seen him, jaw set and eyes hard, probably one good push from putting his fist through a wall.
“You didn’t cause this,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything to prevent it, either,” he replied.
“Like what, exactly?” I lowered my voice so it didn’t carry beyond the curtain to Bethany. “They were targeting him, you know. Probably Bethany, too.”
“I realize that. This Uncle of theirs probably wants to make sure they won’t talk.”
“Probably.”
“Landon could have died.”
“Any one of us could have died today, Derek. But none of us did.”
He blinked and looked at me for the first time. Some of the stone in his expression softened, and I swear he wanted to smile. “You’re right. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the middle of something like this.”
I snorted. “It’s been my life all year, and it’s likely to stay that way until my luck runs out and I end up a smear on the pavement.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen.”
“Thanks, but I learned a long time ago that wishing someone safe doesn’t keep them alive.”
My thoughts turned to William and our private good-bye before he left for a studio interview on his own two feet and came home in a body bag. We’d only been together a few days, and we’d made love the night before— our first and only time. Everything was still so new, but also familiar and right. We’d made plans for an official date once everything settled down. We’d dared to think ahead and look to the future.
And then he died and something inside me cracked.
Thatcher touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers. I tilted my head to look at him and saw the same stark grief in his eyes that was raging inside of me. How could two people who were so damned different feel the same things so strongly?
“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve lost,” he said softly.
My heart pounded. “Why? You barely know me.”
“I’m trying to fix that, Renee, if you’ll let me.”
The words to answer him stuck in my throat.
“Mr. Thatcher?”
We both pivoted to face the rear door, which Dr. Kinsey held open with one hand. Despite the fact that he’d been a murder suspect when we first met him, Kinsey had become part of our little Meta family—even though he was just a mundane human.
“How is he?” Thatcher asked.
“Landon’s stable and likely to make a full recovery. The left lung was nicked, but it didn’t collapse, so we were able to repair the damage easily. The burns are what concern me the most.” Kinsey’s gaze flickered to me; burns were kind of my area of expertise, too. “He has second-degree burns on his back, hands, and face. We have to monitor him for signs of infection, but I hope to keep any scarring to a minimum.”
“Is he in a lot of pain?”
“Not at present, but he will be. Some of the burns on his back are severe, bordering on third-degree. I have him on IV fluids and antibiotics, and I’d like to keep him here a few days for observation.”
“Whatever is best for him. May I see my son now?”
Kinsey’s professional veneer cracked. “Certainly.”
I followed them through the door and into the private area of the infirmary. The hallway had eight closed doors. The one at the end of the hall read SURGERY. The door immediately to our left read OFFICE. Four of the rooms were larger, semiprivate areas for recovery, and two others were treatment rooms.
Outside one of the recovery rooms, Kinsey handed Thatcher a yellow gown and mask. “Just for now,” Kinsey said. “You’re rather filthy, and I don’t want to risk any infections. There’s a sink inside where you can wash your hands.”
“Thank you,” Thatcher said.
Kinsey offered me a gown, too, but I shook my head. “I’m just here for moral support,” I said in my best aren’t-I-so-adorably-sarcastic tone. Plus Thatcher needed privacy with the son he’d only known for twenty-four hours, and who’d almost died.
I caught a quick glance of a figure on a bed when Thatcher went inside. He left the door cracked slightly open, and I was grateful for that. I could keep an eye on them without actually going in.
“How are you, Renee?” Kinsey asked.
“My neck’s a little sore, but I’ve had whiplash before,” I said.
He gave me a look that said that wasn’t what he meant, but didn’t press the issue. “Can I get you anything?”
“Hands full in what way?”
“You’ll understand when you meet her.”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Sounds charming.”
“She’s unstable. She zapped Ethan with that collar he’s wearing just to prove a point.”
“She what?” He looked at the exit door as if he could see through it. “Damn it, Ethan didn’t say anything.”
“And that surprises you?” Teresa would give him hell later for not getting himself checked out, but Ethan was like that. He kept attention off his own injuries when someone else was hurt, sometimes to his own detriment. “Aaron took him upstairs to rest. We can all gang up on him later.”
“Count on it.”
Sometimes I really hated Aaron and Noah for having such an awesome, protective father. My biological father had failed miserably at portraying a human being, much less a decent parent.
Kinsey excused himself to go check on Jessica and Bethany. I paced the hallway for a little while, kind of wishing I had a chair or something to sit on. The aches were coming back, and I debated finding Kinsey to ask for some ibuprofen to take the edge off. Resting for a bit would probably help.
I opened the door to one of the treatment rooms, hoping to find a chair I could pull out into the hall. Instead, I found Noah Scott sitting on an exam table, hugging a wastebasket to his chest, face white as snow, and the sour odor of vomit in the air.
“Noah?”
His glare could have melted steel. “Shut the door,” he said in a rough, exhausted voice.
I did, closing us both into the ripe-smelling room.
“I meant with you on the other side.”
“You should have been more specific,” I said.
