I’m on my second cup of vending machine coffee when I hear the chime of the elevator. I look down the hall to see Glock, Skid, and Mona shuffle out and start toward me. My chest tightens at the sight of them, and for the second time, I fight tears. They are my adopted family, my children and parents and siblings rolled into one, and I’ve never been so glad to see them in my life.

“How’s the old curmudgeon doing?” Glock asks.

“Stable.” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t much. “They took him in to surgery. Doc said bullet went low and damaged his spleen.”

“You don’t need your spleen,” Skid says quickly.

“My grandmother had hers taken out two years ago,” Glock says, “and she’s doing fine.”

“I thought your grandmother was in prison,” Skid says.

Our laughter feels a little forced, but I think all of us appreciate it because we’re worried and scared and no one can think of a better way to deal with it.

Mona touches my arm. “Clarice okay?” she asks.

“She’s waiting for him outside recovery,” Glock replies.

I turn my attention to Glock. “T.J. holding down the fort?”

“He wanted to be here, but there was no one else.”

“Where’s Ruth Weaver?” I ask.

“Holmes County transported her and booked her in.”

“I need to go talk to her.”

“Figured you would. We’ve got it covered here if you want to go.”

I had no business leaving my suspect or the scene of a shooting. But there’s an unwritten rule in law enforcement whether you’re the chief or a beat cop: When one of your own gets hurt, you drop everything and you go.

“Call me,” I tell him.

“The instant I hear anything.”

I’ve just started toward the elevator when the door swishes open and Tomasetti steps into the hall. My steps falter at the sight of him. His eyes take in the length of me, a grim, determined look on his face. His eyes narrow on the bandage at my temple, and he starts toward me.

“Kate…” He tries to frown, but only manages to look worried. “For God’s sake, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He reaches me, and his arms engulf me without hesitation. He squeezes too hard for too long, then sets me back and sighs. “I guess you’re going to make me ask what’s underneath that bandage.”

“You mean besides a mullet?”

He lets out a laugh.

I can’t help it; I smile. I’m happy to see him, relieved that he’s here. “It’s only seven stitches.”

“Only seven?” He leans close and kisses the top of my head. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Of all the things I expected him to do, that wasn’t it. “Driver’s-side window wasn’t that hard, I guess.”