“You sure do whine a lot,” Dean comments as soon as I step into the hallway.
“I do not whine,” I protest, heading for the elevator. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to get you. You didn't drive yourself to the hospital, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Well, thank you.”
“You do whine,” he says.
“I do not,” I repeat, pushing the elevator button
“At the very least, you are a terrible patient.”
“I don't like being in the hospital. I feel all cooped up and can't do anything,” I say. “And people always treat me as if I’m some fragile little baby bird. I’m fine.”
“Two days, Emma. You were in the hospital for two days. I was in longer when I ate that gas station sushi.”
"Why would you eat gas station sushi?" I ask.
"The point is, it might have done you some good to actually take the doctor's advice and chill out a little bit while you were here. You’ve got the rest of us out here. We've got your back,” he says.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I'm just really bad at hospitals. I don’t have a lot of great memories revolving around hospitals.”
“Martin is dead. He can't put you in a morgue drawer again. And even if somebody tried, I would be there to get you out again,” Dean says.
“That's very sweet of you,” I tell him.
“What are cousins for, if not to rescue you from near-death experiences?”
“Picnics and barbecues?” I offer. “Awkward Christmas pictures? Complaining about other relatives at Thanksgiving?”
“Good options,” he grins. “We’ll try all of them out. But for now, where am I taking you?”
“Have you and Xavier been staying at his house?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he says. “And you should see this thing. It's insane. It's like Inspector Gadget designed it in cooperation with Martha Stewart.”
“So, there's a kitchen?”
“Yes, Emma, there's a kitchen.”
“Good. Let's go there,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Not that I don't appreciate the smell of cinnamon rolls,” Dean starts, “but why are you making them right after getting out of the hospital?”
“I don't care why she's making them; they're delicious,” Xavier says, unraveling another one from my last batch into his mouth.
The thought flashes through my mind, and I wonder what the cinnamon rolls would say about him. It makes me smile to myself. I might have been around Xavier too much, but I can't say I hate the way he's changed my thoughts. Most of the time.
“Some of them are for Sam,” I say. “I was supposed to make them for him before I left home, but I didn't. And he's coming here today, so I want to have them waiting for him. Unfortunately, the hotel I have been calling home does not have an oven. So, thank you, Xavier, for lending me yours.”
He grins through a mouthful of cinnamon, dough, and cream cheese frosting.
“I think it’s enjoying it. It's been a long time since anything was baked in here. And I never made cinnamon rolls.”
“Well, it's rising to the occasion beautifully,” I smile.
“Why are you still in the hotel?” Dean asks. “You have plenty of money. You could just rent a house for as long as you're going to be here in Harlan.”
Just the suggestion makes me swallow hard and shake my head, but I can't come up with the exact words to answer him.
“Because this isn't where she wants her home to be,” Xavier says.
“What?” Dean asks.
“Your surroundings become your identity. They are your reality. You can always hope for something different or dream that you're somewhere else. But you are where you are. There's never a guarantee you'll be anywhere else. If Emma rented a house here, that would be like saying this was her home now. That this is where she belongs. She can't do that. This isn't where she wants to tie her soul,” Xavier says.
He hands me the now empty tray, and I start another batch of rolls in the silence his words left in their wake.
I'm standing in the middle of the hotel room with a plate piled high with cinnamon rolls when Sam comes in two hours later. He looks at them, takes the plate out of my hands to set aside on the desk, then scoops me into his arms and holds me close.
By lunch the next day, the cinnamon rolls are gone, and so is any of the relaxation I might have gotten from my stay in the hospital. Sam went out to grab us something to eat, and when he comes back, I'm sitting at the desk with my elbows propped on it, my fingers clenched in my hair as I stare at the papers in front of me. Dean is flat on his face on one of the beds, and Xavier is draped sideways across the other, his head hanging upside down from the side.
“Well, this looks like an optimistic and energetic bunch,” Sam remarks, coming in carrying a bag full of white styrofoam containers from the sandwich shop down the street.
“We still can't find him,” I tell him.
Sam sets the bag on the table and shrugs out of his jacket, draping it on the chair.
“Jennings?” he asks.
“Yes.” I say releasing my hair and dropping my head back for a second, then turning to look at him. “We have talked to everybody we can think of. Travel agents. The other judges. I just got off the phone with his brother. Who is even more unpleasant than Sterling is, if you can believe it. And we are nowhere. Nobody knows where he is, and nobody thinks it's important for us to know where he is. It was as if Ron was finding joy in not being able to give us any information.”
“Or choosing not to,” Dean adds, his voice muffled by the bedspread.
I hold my hand up to underscore his point.
“Alright, everybody up,” Sam says. “Did any of you hear from Detective White today?”
“No,” I say.
“No,” Dean says.
“I never hear from Detective White,” Xavier says.
“Did any of you
