She spun around as she heard footsteps a
pproaching. But it wasn’t Roarke or one of those faceless doctors. Feeney hurried in, his stylish shirt rumpled from the long day, a flush of anxiety riding on his cheeks.
He shot her a look, and when she only shook her head, he went straight to McNab, and sat—as Roarke had—on the table.
They spoke in murmurs, Feeney’s low and steady, McNab’s thin and disjointed.
Eve circled around them, and into the corridor. She needed to know something. To do anything.
When she saw Roarke coming toward her, when she saw his face, her knees went to water.
“She’s not—”
“No.” He took the coffee from her because her hands had started to shake. “She’s still in surgery. Eve . . .” He set the coffee on a rolling tray so that he could take both of her hands in his.
“Just tell me.”
“Three broken ribs. Her lung collapsed on the way in. Her shoulder’s torn up, hip’s fractured. There’s considerable internal damage. Her kidney’s bruised, and her spleen—they’re trying to repair, but they may have to remove it.”
God. “They—if they do, they can replace it. They can replace anything. What else?”
“He shattered her cheekbone, dislocated her jaw.”
“That’s bad. It’s bad, but they can fix—”
“There’s head trauma. It’s a concern.” He ran his hands rhythmically up and down her arms, kept his eyes on hers. “It’s very serious.”
The attending physician he’d collared in ER had told him Peabody looked as if she’d been struck head-on by a maxibus.
“They . . . they say her chances?”
“They wouldn’t, no. I can tell you they have a full team on her, and if there’s a need for outside specialists we’ll get them. We’ll get whatever she needs.”
Her throat was flooded, and closed like a dam. She managed a nod.
“How much do you want me to tell him?”
“What?”
“McNab.” He rubbed her shoulders now, waited while she closed her eyes, gathered herself. “How much do you want me to tell him?”
“All of it. He needs to know all of it. He—” She broke off, let herself cling for a moment when Roarke drew her in. “God. Oh God.”
“She’s strong. She’s young and strong and healthy. It weighs on her side. You know that.”
Broken. Shattered. Fractured. “Go tell him. Feeney’s here, Feeney’s with him. Go tell them.”
“Come, sit down then.” Gently, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks. “Wait with them. We’ll all wait together.”
“Not yet. I’m okay.” She eased back, but took his hands, squeezed them before releasing them. “I just need to settle down. And I . . . I need to contact some people. I need to do . . . things, or I’ll go crazy.”
He drew her to him again, held tight. “We won’t let her go.”
An hour ticked by, minute by endless minute.
“We get any more?”
Eve shook her head at Feeney. She’d taken to leaning up against the wall outside the waiting area when she wasn’t pacing. The waiting room had started to fill with cops. Uniforms, detectives, civilian drones, who settled in to wait or stopped by for news.