“I thought you were over feeling guilty about something you couldn’t control, Saylor.”
“I don’t feel guilty. I feel stupid.”
Her mother shook her head. “It’s a waste of time, and you know it. Should I call myself stupid because of the things your father did?”
This was a conversation she and her mother had had several times in the last five years. Each time, Saylor would say it was different and her mother would remind her it wasn’t different at all. This time, she didn’t bother offering up the pointless argument.
WHEN SAYLOR’S cell phone rang two days later, a foreboding feeling washed over her even before she answered it.
“This is Monk Perrin calling.”
“What’s happened?” she asked out of instinct and then held her breath.
“Your brother was shot. He’s in surgery.”
When Monk went on to say that Razor’s condition was critical, she made arrangements for her girls to stay with a family friend, and then went and broke the news to her mother.
Transportation was arranged from the duplex she and her mother shared to the airfield, and then once the small private plane landed, someone else drove them to the hospital.
Monk was waiting at the entrance when they arrived. “He’s still in surgery. Come with me.”
When they walked in and she saw the somber expressions on the faces of the K19 team members in the waiting room, Saylor dissolved into tears.
Monk, still beside her, pulled her into his arms and held her while she cried.
“I’m sorry,” she said a few moments later. “I don’t even know you.”
When she started to back away, Monk tightened his arms around her waist. “Sure, you do.”
AN HOUR LATER, two people, both wearing scrubs, came through the double doors.
“Are you Mr. Sharp’s family?” one of them asked.
“I’m his mother,” said Sally, walking over to them. Saylor stood and joined her.
“Your son is on life support.”
Monk had his arm around her; Saylor knew that much. Everything else, though, seemed to be happening in slow motion. People were talking, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying.
“The doctor asked if you want to go see him?” Monk whispered.
“Yes,” she said, but when he released her from his embrace, all she wanted to do was crawl back into it.
“Follow me,” she heard a woman say to her mother. Saylor stepped forward and took her mother’s hand.
“THE COMA he’s in is medically induced,” explained the man who introduced himself as the surgeon who had operated on her brother. “Go ahead,” he said, motioning to a door where the nurse stood.
“The ventilator is doing his breathing for him, everything else you see is monitoring his heart rate, blood pressure, as well as feeding him fluids.”
Saylor put her arm around her mother’s shoulders as they were led into the room. When her mother gasped, Saylor tightened her grip. She led her to the chair next to the bed and watched as she took Razor’s hand in hers.
“He’s warm,” her mom said, looking up at her.
Saylor walked around to the opposite side of the bed, sat in a chair, and took her brother’s other hand.
“He’s going to be okay, Mom,” Saylor said, reaching across her brother’s body to hold her mother’s hand.
“Do either of you know who Avarie is?” the nurse asked.