Sebastian sank through the cool water, grabbing his chest and thinking only one thing: Ava.

CHAPTER 8

ELLIE WAS SENT straight to the hospital—not that she had asked, and not that there was any need. Physically, she was okay, everything in working order. What she needed was to go home, take a long, hot shower, and then change into comfortable clothes, go sit out on the back deck with a glass of Irish whiskey, and enjoy the peace and quiet, take some time to process everything that had happened. No more talking, and answering the same questions over and over again.

Her plans, though, would have to wait until later. The procedures in place after a shooting were specific and nonnegotiable: she had to go to the hospital whether she wanted to or not, and get a full examination, everything documented in writing so she couldn’t turn around later and try to milk a disability claim, maybe even sue the department down the road for some injury she suffered while on the job.

Riding shotgun in the patrol car, she stared out the side window and wondered if there had ever been a time in human history when people had simply done their jobs without trying to game the system.

“We’re here,” the patrolwoman said, pulling into the parking lot of St. Michael’s Hospital. Her name was Toni Vickers. She was somewhere in her fifties and had white hair and smooth brown skin and a round, comforting face.

Vickers had said something. Ellie couldn’t recall it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you’re okay to walk, or would you like assistance? I can go inside, wheel out a chair, and—”

“I walked into the car by myself,” Ellie snapped. “I sure as hell can walk out of it.”

Vickers nodded somberly, lips pressed tight.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie sighed. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just that . . . I’m not the victim here. Everyone is talking to me in this patronizing way, acting like I’m going to explode into a million little pieces. That’s not going to happen, okay? I just want to get this over with.”

The ER waiting room was packed to capacity. When Vickers returned from the check-in area with a young, plump nurse with rosy, cherublike cheeks, the woman led them down a series of halls and into an exam room.

The nurse handed her a neatly folded dressing gown. Ellie stared at it, the fabric thin and rough against her fingers. While computers and medicine had advanced and kept making breakthroughs, some things never changed—remained a constant—like the drab examination smock a patient had to wear backward.

The nurse left, but the room felt claustrophobic because Vickers, by no means a small woman, with her ample hips, remained. She stood against the wall, underneath a pair of taped sheets of paper advocating the importance of the HPV vaccine and handwashing.

“Let’s bag your clothes,” Vickers said.

“My clothes?”