It Was a Dark and Stormy Night…Maybe?

For starters, the guy at the door to Trey’s room wouldn’t let me in. He was dressed in Phoenix Corporate Security official—black suit, white shirt, dark tie—but his jacket bunched awkwardly at the shoulders and his tie sported gray squiggles that resembled seasick amoebas.

“Sorry,” he said. “No visitors. Hospital rules.”

“This is the ER,” I said. “And that’s not a rule.”

The guy shrugged and didn’t budge, just rubbed his nose with one sausage-sized finger. I vaguely remembered his name was Stan, and that he was a recent hire, evidence of an unfortunate new trend toward linebacker bodyguards. Marisa still had her contingent of elegant badasses—one less now that Trey was no longer in her employ—but she’d expanded Phoenix’s close protection offerings to include some goon muscle.

The door to the waiting room buzzed and a trio of clowns trooped in our direction. One—a slender man in a striped jumpsuit—offered me a fake daisy. I bit my lip and shook my head. Don’t yell at the clown, I told myself, keep your cool with the clown.

Stan gestured toward the plastic jack-o-lantern, “Y’all got any candy?”

The head clown—white pancake face, red nose, rainbow wig—offered him a lollipop. He took it with a nod of thanks, and the clowns continued down the hallway, shoes squeaking.

I reached for the door. Stan stepped in my way.

“No exceptions,” he said. “Ms. Edenfield’s orders.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I’m an exception. Which I’m certain Marisa told you, but you’re trying to play hardball for some reason. Not a smart move. Because the fact that I call your boss by her first name should tell you something very important.”

He gave examined me more closely then, taking in my own black jacket, white dress shirt, and black tie. I would have fit right into the Phoenix dress code if the skirt hadn’t been so short. And tight. The fishnet stockings and heels were also not Phoenix-appropriate. My hair, however, was sleeked back in a corner-office chignon—still blonde, but flat as a Texas highway—and my make-up was equally boring and professional.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Call her. She’ll be less mad about the interruption than the scene I’m gonna make if you don’t let me in that door.”

He pulled out his phone. As he spoke to Marisa, I watched his expression shift from grumpy skepticism to grudging acceptance.

He tucked his phone back in his jacket. “Ms. Edenfield says you need to get your paperwork done ASAP.”

“What paperwork?”

“She didn’t say.” He unwrapped the sucker and stuck it in his mouth. “You’re apparently a detective, you figure it out.”

I pushed past him into the tiny cramped room.

Trey was sitting on the edge of the ER bed, shirtless, a bandage the size of a waffle covering the back of his left hand and part of his forearm. He had a computer open in his lap and a pencil behind his ear.

The IV monitor beeped, and I noticed the drip line in the crook of his elbow. Probably an antibiotic, standard for a bullet wound. They’d give him acetaminophen for the head injury, which would dull the pain but not eliminate it.

I took a deep calming breath. “Hey.”

Trey looked up. “Hey.”

His eyes were almost supernaturally blue in the sterile unflinching light, but also tight. His black hair was neatly combed, however, his expression alert. I saw a toothbrush next to a Styrofoam cup on the bedside table, wet towels in the wash basin. His suit jacket was draped on a folding chair in the corner, wrinkled, blood on the cuff.

“Did you bring my phone?” he said.

I stopped in my tracks. “That’s your opener, asking for your phone? Not assuring me that you’re alive and well despite throwing yourself face-first into an armed robbery?”

His voice carried an edge of pique. “I’m alive and well. Obviously. Also that’s not what happened.” He resumed typing. “Also Marisa assured me she would tell you I was alive and well when she called you.”

She had, but I wasn’t conceding the point. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me?”

“Because I lost my phone.”

I pointed. “You managed to keep your laptop.”

“This isn’t my laptop.”

“Sure looks like your laptop.”

“That’s because it’s a Phoenix-issue laptop that Marisa had delivered.” He flicked a glance in my direction. “I did send you an email. As soon as I could. Because I knew you’d want to know that I was okay, and I knew you’d want to hear it from me.”

I realized I’d balled my hands into fists and shook them loose. Yes, Marisa had indeed told me he was okay — minor concussion and a bullet graze, she’d said, he’ll go home in a few hours. But I understood better than most people what a concussion could do to a human brain, Trey himself being Exhibit A. I reminded myself he wasn’t being deliberately annoying, that his task persistence and emotional standoffishness were artifacts of that older injury, not fresh damage, not a deliberate attempt to infuriate me.

And yet...

I dropped the bag at the foot of the bed. “Yes, I have your damn phone. An EMT left it at patient services. I also—as requested—brought clean clothes, a razor, and your aftershave. Plus a sheaf of yellow pads and three pencils.”

“Thank you.”

He resumed typing. An alarm sounded in the hallway. I couldn’t tell if was a fire alarm or an exit alarm or some other kind of alarm. And then it stopped abruptly. Trey didn’t even look up.

I jerked my thumb toward the door. “Why does Phoenix have an agent posted to your room? You haven’t worked there for ten months.”

“The bank that was robbed was a Phoenix client. And I’m one of the witnesses. But more importantly—”

“You’re one of the victims.”

“Casualties. Technically. But that’s not why I was assigned an agent or allowed to borrow a laptop.” He tapped out a lightning-fast series of keystrokes, and my phone beeped. “Marisa has hired us to investigate the robbery. Assuming you sign the contract I just forwarded to you.”

I snatched up my phone and swiped it open. The document already had Trey’s signature, which was why he was already working the case. So this was the paperwork Marisa needed ASAP.

The IV machine beeped twice.