In a rush, Vin thought back to the mess his duplex had been left in and the lies Devina had told the police. “She’s vicious, Detective. Worse than you can imagine. And I did not hit her, not once that night, not ever. My mother was abused by my father, and I don’t pull shit like that. I’d walk out and leave everything I own behind before I ever struck a female.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed and that eagle stare locked on Vin. After a moment, the guy nodded. “Well, we’ll see. I’m not handling that side of things because it’s out of my department…but I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t find there was more going on, like a third party or something. I’ve looked into the faces of a lot of wife beaters and you’re not one of their kind.”

De la Cruz put his notebook and pen away and glanced at his watch. “Hey, check it out. Now you haven’t thrown up in almost a half hour. That’s a good sign—maybe they’ll let you blow this Popsicle stand.”

Vin extended his free hand even though his shoulder didn’t appreciate it. “You’re okay, Detective, you know that?”

A solid palm met Vin’s and they shook. “And I hope you two are going to be all right. I’ll be in touch.”

After the guy left, the curtain flapped back down in place and Vin took a deep breath. “How long do you suppose I have to wait before I can go?”

“Let’s give it another half an hour, and if they don’t come to check on you, I’ll go find that doctor.”

“Okay.”

The trouble was, being powerless and waiting like a good boy had never sat well. Within five minutes, he was getting ready to hit the nurse-call button, except then the curtain parted again.

“Perfect timing—” Vin frowned. Instead of a nurse or a doctor, it was Eddie, looking as grim as a guy who’d just lost a friend and fallen out of a second-floor window.

Go. Fig.

Vin’s first instinct was to sit right up, but that didn’t go over well at all. As his shoulder let out an opera-singer scream, he had to close his throat up to keep from vomiting all over the front of himself—but at least it wasn’t from the Demerol.

As Gretchen lunged for a fresh bedpan and Eddie held up both of his palms in the universal language of whooooooooooooa, Vin tottered on the edge of losing it.

Thank fuck the tide receded and his stomach eventually loosened up.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he said roughly. “I’m having issues.”

“No probs. No probs at all.”

Vin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. “I’m sorry…about Jim.”