Page 11 of The Final Cut

“East service corridor. Exterior camera dead. Car left without plates. Two bodies found in the chapel hall, both La Rosa. Neither talking.”

I hate this waiting room.

I hate the lights, the humming vending machine, the muted television no one is watching. I hate that the doors to surgery open only for strangers. I hate that my tablet can show me every hallway and still not show me Cal’s blood pressure, his oxygen saturation, his surgeon’s hands.

I can lock down a building. I can trace cameras, spoof credentials, jam phones, rebuild a timeline from reflections in glass. I can know the car that took Delia turned south by the river before the city swallowed it.

I cannot make Cal’s blood go back into his body. I cannot take that look off Reva’s face.

A nurse comes in to speak with the family across the room. Someone begins to cry. Reva flinches so hard her hand tightens around mine.

“Wrong family,” I say.

Her eyes squeeze shut.

Shiloh shifts closer on the floor, shoulder brushing her knee. He doesn’t touch more than that.

A doctor appears twenty minutes later. Maybe thirty.

Time has gone soft in the center and sharp around the edges. I know exactly how many staff members have walked through the west corridor since we arrived. I can’t tell how long Reva has been holding my hand. I only know it’s approaching dawn, that Cal’s surgery took several hours, by the time he walks through the doors.

The doctor is tall, tired, and still in surgical cap, with his mask pulled down at his throat. Blood marks one sleeve. He scans the room, and the moment his eyes settle on us, every body changes.

Reva stands too fast.

I stand with her because her knees almost fail. Shiloh rises on her other side. Deacon moves behind us, silent as a locked door.

“Family for Calvin Boudreaux?” the doctor asks.

“Yes,” Reva says. Her voice is rough. “I’m his daughter.”

No one corrects her.

The doctor nods. “He’s alive.”

The sound Reva makes is not relief. Relief should be cleaner.

“He made it through the first surgery,” the doctor continues. “He lost a significant amount of blood. The bullet caused internal damage, and there was bleeding in the abdominal cavity. We repaired what we could tonight, but he’s critical. There may be liver involvement. There’s also concern about the lung because of the trajectory of the bullet and the blood he aspirated before arrival.”

Reva’s hand clamps around mine.

“How long until you know?” she asks.

“We’re moving him to ICU. He’ll remain intubated. We may keep him sedated, possibly in a medically induced coma, to give his body the best chance. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are important.”

“That means bad,” she says.

“It means serious.”

Her chin lifts. “Serious is what doctors say when they don’t want family to hear bad.”

The doctor holds her gaze. He does not insult her with a smile. “It is bad. It is not hopeless.”

Her grip trembles, and I want to break something.

“Can I see him?” she asks.

“Briefly, once he’s settled in ICU. A nurse will come get you.”