door, his footsteps echoing as he ran down the hallway.
Like hell.
“Out of my way.” I tried to push past the cop, but he was a damn sight bigger than me and likely weighed twice as much. He grabbed me by the shoulders and held on. “Let me go,” I demanded, wrenching away from him and nearly falling. He reached out and steadied me.
It pissed me off and I pulled back, but to no avail. He didn’t let me go.
“No, Mr. Ashwood. You’re not going anywhere. Not until we know what’s going on.” I trembled in his steadying hands. “Let me go, now,” I said through clenched teeth.
But he shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
I shuddered with fear and anger, and glared over the cop’s shoulder at the door. Stupid fucking broken leg. Even if I could get past him, he’d catch me in a second, and he knew it. I thought about whacking him with one of my crutches, right where it would stun even a halfback like him, but I knew it was useless. I was stuck.
“Shit,” I said, tearing the word out from deep in my gut as I wrenched away from his grip.
“Sorry, Mr. Ashwood.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I half-stumbled, my crutches catching on his foot, and steadied myself before he could.
He cocked his head to listen to whatever was going on outside the door, then nodded at me 58 Carolyn Gray
in apology, I guess. I hobbled over to the window and stared at the cold, harsh scene below me. I hated Colorado. I hated the snow. I hated this hospital. I hated the helplessness that kept me bound to this room, watched over like I was a child who couldn’t even piss without supervision. I felt like a prisoner all over again as I fought to keep the panic down.
What the hell was going on?
I laid my hands against the window panes, balancing on my crutches. So cold. So damn cold out there, beneath my hands. The parking lot was below my window. I could see a TV
van of some sort pulling into a space. There were others, of course. The press conference. I thumped the glass with my hand, then did it again, harder. And harder. I bit my lip and did it again, making the window shake, crazily imagining breaking the glass, feeling the shards slip into my skin, making me feel anything but the terror skittering through me now.
“Mr. Ashwood, please be careful --”
The door opened. I whirled around, barely able to stop the pent-up panic from exploding, and hobbled over to the cop sticking his head inside. His gaze fell on me. “Mr.
Ashwood, Mr. Kilmain needs you. He’s all right.” I’d be the judge of that. I brushed angrily past the cop guarding me -- he followed, much to my annoyance -- and swung my way back to Nick’s room.
The cop who had fetched me stopped me. “Not in there. We moved him,” he said, indicating the room across the hall.
I pushed my way into the room. “Nick.” I headed straight for the bed where Nicholas lay, pale and ghostly underneath blankets. “What happened, Nick?” I set my crutches aside and cradled his face. “Look at me, Nicholas,” I said, touching his face, his shoulders, his chest.
He seemed okay, but for the deadness in his eyes as he turned them to me.
“Barkley. They killed Barkley.”
“What?” That was impossible. My brother was with Barkley, at Nick’s house in New York.
Detective Anderson stepped up. “Mr. Kilmain received a package while we were down the hall.” He glanced at Nicholas. I reached for Nick’s hand. He clung to me as if he’d never let go. As he had when I’d first found him.
“It had --” Nicholas closed his eyes and turned his head. Tears streamed down his cheek.
“There were animal remains inside, and a picture of his dog.” And that’s why Nicholas had screamed.
Without hesitation I grabbed the phone. I asked for an outside line, only to learn I couldn’t make a long-distance call. “I need a blasted phone that works,” I said, slamming it down. The detective handed me his. “I’ll reimburse you,” I told him, quickly dialing Nick’s home
Like hell.
“Out of my way.” I tried to push past the cop, but he was a damn sight bigger than me and likely weighed twice as much. He grabbed me by the shoulders and held on. “Let me go,” I demanded, wrenching away from him and nearly falling. He reached out and steadied me.
It pissed me off and I pulled back, but to no avail. He didn’t let me go.
“No, Mr. Ashwood. You’re not going anywhere. Not until we know what’s going on.” I trembled in his steadying hands. “Let me go, now,” I said through clenched teeth.
But he shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
I shuddered with fear and anger, and glared over the cop’s shoulder at the door. Stupid fucking broken leg. Even if I could get past him, he’d catch me in a second, and he knew it. I thought about whacking him with one of my crutches, right where it would stun even a halfback like him, but I knew it was useless. I was stuck.
“Shit,” I said, tearing the word out from deep in my gut as I wrenched away from his grip.
“Sorry, Mr. Ashwood.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I half-stumbled, my crutches catching on his foot, and steadied myself before he could.
He cocked his head to listen to whatever was going on outside the door, then nodded at me 58 Carolyn Gray
in apology, I guess. I hobbled over to the window and stared at the cold, harsh scene below me. I hated Colorado. I hated the snow. I hated this hospital. I hated the helplessness that kept me bound to this room, watched over like I was a child who couldn’t even piss without supervision. I felt like a prisoner all over again as I fought to keep the panic down.
What the hell was going on?
I laid my hands against the window panes, balancing on my crutches. So cold. So damn cold out there, beneath my hands. The parking lot was below my window. I could see a TV
van of some sort pulling into a space. There were others, of course. The press conference. I thumped the glass with my hand, then did it again, harder. And harder. I bit my lip and did it again, making the window shake, crazily imagining breaking the glass, feeling the shards slip into my skin, making me feel anything but the terror skittering through me now.
“Mr. Ashwood, please be careful --”
The door opened. I whirled around, barely able to stop the pent-up panic from exploding, and hobbled over to the cop sticking his head inside. His gaze fell on me. “Mr.
Ashwood, Mr. Kilmain needs you. He’s all right.” I’d be the judge of that. I brushed angrily past the cop guarding me -- he followed, much to my annoyance -- and swung my way back to Nick’s room.
The cop who had fetched me stopped me. “Not in there. We moved him,” he said, indicating the room across the hall.
I pushed my way into the room. “Nick.” I headed straight for the bed where Nicholas lay, pale and ghostly underneath blankets. “What happened, Nick?” I set my crutches aside and cradled his face. “Look at me, Nicholas,” I said, touching his face, his shoulders, his chest.
He seemed okay, but for the deadness in his eyes as he turned them to me.
“Barkley. They killed Barkley.”
“What?” That was impossible. My brother was with Barkley, at Nick’s house in New York.
Detective Anderson stepped up. “Mr. Kilmain received a package while we were down the hall.” He glanced at Nicholas. I reached for Nick’s hand. He clung to me as if he’d never let go. As he had when I’d first found him.
“It had --” Nicholas closed his eyes and turned his head. Tears streamed down his cheek.
“There were animal remains inside, and a picture of his dog.” And that’s why Nicholas had screamed.
Without hesitation I grabbed the phone. I asked for an outside line, only to learn I couldn’t make a long-distance call. “I need a blasted phone that works,” I said, slamming it down. The detective handed me his. “I’ll reimburse you,” I told him, quickly dialing Nick’s home
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