"You're upset," Benicio said, his voice low.
I managed to open my eyes enough to see Lucas at my side, walking fast, Benicio beside him, leaning in for privacy.
"And that surprises you?" Lucas clipped his words, voice colder than I'd ever heard it.
"I don't blame you for being angry, but you know I had nothing to do with this."
"It was all a misunderstanding. Or a coincidence. Have you decided yet? If not, may I suggest you choose misunderstanding? It provides more opportunity for prevarication."
Benicio reached for Lucas's free arm. "Lucas, I--"
Lucas swiped at his father's hand, catching it and knocking him back. Benicio's eyes went wide. Lucas's face twisted as he spun to say something, but as he wheeled around, he noticed my eyes were half open and stopped in mid-turn. He bent over me, nearly tripping as he tried to keep pace alongside the stretcher.
"Paige? Can you hear me?"
I tried to nod, but had to settle for fluttering my eyelids. He squeezed my hand.
"You're okay," he said. "You're in a hospital--a private hospital. Robert arranged it. They need to..."
I slid back into unconsciousness.
The cuts on my neck proved the least of my injuries. The blade had left only shallow gashes that required no more than a quick cleaning and small bandages. I'd sustained two other injuries--one serious but relatively painless, the other minor but painful as hell. The chest wound had cut my lung, collapsing it. The doctors had inserted a chest tube, cleared out the blood, and reinflated my lung, which now seemed fine, although they had to keep the chest tube in for a day or two. The abdomen cut had sliced only through muscle--well, okay, undoubtedly more fat than muscle, but the doctors said "muscle" so I'm sticking to their version. Though the wound was superficial, every time I moved, it was like getting stabbed all over again.
The next morning I opened my eyes to see Adam hunched over a psychology textbook, highlighter in hand. I reached up to rub my face and nearly toppled the IV onto the bed. Adam grabbed it just in time.
"Shit," he said. "I finally convince Lucas it's safe to leave for a few minutes and you decide to wake up. If he comes back, close your eyes, okay?"
I managed a weak smile and opened my mouth to speak, then made a face. I pointed to the water. Adam poured me a glass. He started to put in the straw, but I grabbed the glass and took a gulp. The water hit my parched throat and bounced back, dribbling out my mouth.
"That's attractive," he said, reaching for a tissue.
I snatched it before he could do anything as humiliating as wipe my face. He picked up something from the dresser.
"Brought you something." He handed me a stuffed beanbag bear dressed in a black witch's hat and dress. "Remember these?"
"Hmmm." I struggled to focus, still woozy. "Right. The dolls." A small smile, as the memory surfaced. "You--" I wet my lips and tried again. "You used to buy them for me. Gifts."
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He grinned. "Every ugly wart-faced witch doll I could find. Because I knew how much you loved them."
"Hated them. And you knew it. Used to lecture you on sensitivity and stereotyping." I shook my head. "God, I was insufferable sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
I swatted him and laughed, then gasped as pain shot through my stomach. Adam grabbed for the call button, but I lifted my hand to stop him.
"I'm okay," I said.
He nodded and sat down on the side of the bed. "You had us pretty worried. At the house everything seemed okay, but then, boom, you blacked out and your blood pressure dropped--" He shook his head. "Not a good scene. I was freaked, and Lucas was freaked, which only freaked me out even more, 'cause I figured this guy doesn't scare easy and if this scares him, there must be reason to be scared and--" Another shake of the head. "It wasn't good."
"Paige."
I looked up to see a figure in the doorway. The voice told me it was Lucas, but I had to blink to double-check. Pale and unshaven, he was still dressed in the suit he'd worn for the missionary ruse at Weber's house, but the jacket and tie were gone. His shirt was wrinkled and splattered with coffee stains. One sleeve of his shirt was charred at the forearm, with bandages peeking through the gaping hole. That was the drawback to working with Adam--when he got mad, you had to stay out of his way, or you paid the price in second-degree burns.
"I'll be outside," Adam said, shifting off the bed.
He slipped out the door. As Lucas approached I saw that the stains on his shirt weren't coffee brown, but rust red. Blood. My blood. He followed my gaze.