Bruce angled the boat toward the wreck and the bright lights of the Coast Guard ship. The helicopter buzzed close to the water’s surface, kicking up a storm of sea spray, the noise from its rotors echoing off the opposite cliffs. As they got closer, she noticed a rope extending from the chopper’s open door.
“They must have dropped in a diver,” Bruce said, his gaze narrowing.
She imagined a man in a black wetsuit and long fins tugging Quinn’s lifeless body to the surface. Instantly, she leaned over the side of the boat as hot bile raced up her throat.
Bruce was next to her in an instant. Now that they were broadside to the waves, the boat tipped and jerked more violently.
“Stop, please!” Cassidy said. “I don’t want to get any closer! I can’t!”
The chopper’s whine increased. Cassidy saw a black lump being raised from the water.
A wave tipped their bow, knocking them both off balance. “Cassidy, we’re in trouble if we don’t get help. I’m calling the Coast Guard.”
The helicopter took off towards the city, leaving them with the sound of the waves slapping the sides of the boat.
She was aware of Bruce starting the engine but the words he shared via phone faded into the background.
If they had Quinn’s body, at least she could say goodbye. Tears burned her eyes as she imagined all the details she would now be in charge of: cancelling credit cards, selling his possessions, packing up his things, planning his funeral. Just like when Pete had left her.
I won’t survive this.
“What?” Bruce cried into his phone, startling her. “This is confirmed?”
Cassidy watched him as if through a fog.
His face burst with joy. “Cassidy!” he said, diving to his knees to grab her shoulders. “Quinn’s alive.”
She blinked at him, feeling as if she was looking at him through a long tunnel.
He squeezed her shoulders, his intense gaze boring into her. “They got an agent on board. They got Quinn out before the blast.”
Cassidy would only let go of her grip on the edge of oblivion if she was sure. “Are you positive?”
“What we just saw was him being pulled from the water.”
Cassidy tried to make sense of this, but there were too many loose thoughts spinning around in her mind. He was in the water? But it was so cold! Was he hurt?
“They’re taking him to the hospital.”
Finally, a pulse of relief shuddered through her. Quinn was alive.
Bruce started the engine, then spoke into the phone. “We’re on our way.”
Thirty
Cassidy woke to the sound of an alarm going off. With a start, she pushed herself upright, wincing at the resulting sting this caused in her bandaged hands. Without her glasses, everything was blurry. White walls, a still figure on a hospital bed, the wide, reclining lounge chair she and Bruce had slept on. Outside the room, the alarm continued to blare followed by the shuffle of feet passing their door.
She reached across Bruce’s chest to a small side table and found her glasses.
“I just checked on him,” Bruce said as she slipped them on.
She settled back against his frame and pulled up the blanket. “Thank you for staying.”
His arm rested softly across her shoulder. “Like I could leave,” he said. “Though I’m sure Agent Harris is going to bust in here any minute and drag my ass away.”
Cassidy winced. “I’m sorry.” If not for Bruce by her side, she never would have been able to step through the hospital’s doors. All the memories of Pete’s time in ICU had come flooding back, triggered by the smell of starch and death and the sounds, and her terror.
“I’m not,” he said.
She turned so that she could see his eyes. “Are you going to get in trouble?”
“Definitely.”
Cassidy settled back into the warmth of his body as her stomach panged with guilt. “Do you think they’ll let Quinn go home today?”
“Now that his body temperature is stable and the CT showed no internal injuries, yeah, I would think so.”
Cassidy relaxed further. The quicker they could get out of here, the better.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get some sleep around here?” a voice groaned from across the room.
Cassidy threw back the blanket and hurried to Quinn’s side, grinning at his groggy expression. The bruise on his face had turned a dark shade of purple, but the way his blue eyes held hers made her heart hum.
Bruce joined her at Quinn’s bedside. “How are you feeling?”
Cassidy glanced at the monitor that showed his vital signs.
“Like crap,” Quinn said.
The reality of what they’d been through threatened to overthrow her relief, but she managed to hold onto it. The only thing that mattered was Quinn’s safety. She would deal with everything else later. Cassidy reached for Quinn’s hand, ignoring the tight burn when she squeezed. The night before, the E.R. had given her six stitches in her left palm and bandaged the rest of the cuts. The P.A. who had performed the procedure informed her that everything should heal beautifully—no tendon or ligament damage.
“But ready to get the hell out of here, that’s for sure,” he added with a half-grin.
The door swung open and Special Agent Harris entered, her expression that same mask of calm, but Cassidy saw the intensity behind her eyes.
“You,” she pointed at Bruce, “are coming with me. Now.” She grabbed the TV remote and aimed it at the TV hanging from the opposite wall. “This is a grade-A clusterfuck.”
A male newscaster spoke into the camera wearing a serious expression. Projected on the screen to his right was an image of Preston Ford dressed in a tuxedo and smiling, his pale eyes bright.
Special Agent Harris tapped the volume button until the newscaster’s voice blared into the room.
“Police have labeled his death suicide,” the newscaster said as the image switched to a view of the mansion from below, the gaping hole in the glass
