Toil & Trouble: A Tai & Trey Story

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 after hours. Hospital rules.”

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

The guy 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 unit to include some goon muscle.

The door to the waiting room buzzed open, and a trio of clowns trooped into the hall. One of them—a slender man in a striped jumpsuit—offered me a fake daisy. I glared at him, hard, and shook my head. I was not in the mood for clown-flavored shenanigans.

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

The tallest clown—white pancake face, red nose, rainbow wig—offered him a lollipop. He took it with a nod of thanks, and they 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 either you forgot or 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 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 stiletto heels were also not Phoenix-appropriate. My hair, however, was combed back in a perfect corner-office chignon—blonde, sleek, and flat as a Texas highway.

“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 to grudging acceptance. I waited, hands on hips, toe tapping.

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 cramped white room. Trey was sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, shirtless, gauze wrapping his left forearm. I spotted a smaller bandage at the nape of his neck, stark against his black hair. He had a computer open in his lap, a silver mechanical pencil behind his ear, and a half-dozen file folders fanned beside him.

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 hair was neatly combed, however, his expression calm and alert. I saw a toothbrush next to a Styrofoam cup on the bedside table, wet towels in a wash basin. A black suit jacket was draped on a folding chair in the corner, bloodstains darkening the ripped and shredded left 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 on loan.” He flicked a glance in my direction. “I did send 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, I’d gotten his email, and yes, Marisa had indeed reaffirmed that he was okay—minor concussion and a bullet graze, she’d said, he’ll go home in a few hours.

But I knew 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 brittleness were artifacts of that older and more serious brain trauma, 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 brought—as requested—clean clothes, a razor, and your aftershave. Plus a sheaf of yellow notepads, the good ones, and a clipboard with graphing paper.”

“Thank you.”

He fished a notepad from the bag and placed it next to him on the bed. Then he retrieved his phone. A quick swipe to open that, and he started scrolling through his texts.

I crossed my arms, squashing the urge to snatch the phone from his hands. “I told Rico we couldn’t make it tonight. He says he hopes you feel better soon.”

“I feel fine now.” Trey tapped out a text, not looking up. “Tell him I’m sorry we’re missing the party.”

“You’re not sorry. You hate parties, especially Halloween parties.”

“But I like Rico. And you hate hospitals.”

He was one-hundred-percent right about that. The medicinal taint to the air, the jarring inexplicable noises, the spastic artificial lights. So many memories, so much grief and loss and worry all tangled together, too much to unpack. My father, my mother, Trey himself.

But I had more immediate concerns, the most pressing of which was sitting in front of me in gray hospital socks and wrinkled slacks with a Phoenix-issue computer in his lap, hacking away at my last intact nerve.

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

“The bank involved in the incident was a Phoenix client. I’m also one of the witnesses.”

“You mean one of the victims.”

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

I pulled out my phone and opened the attachment. The document already had Trey’s signature. So this was the paperwork Marisa needed ASAP.

I swiped through the torrent of legalese. “When did this happen?”

“When Marisa learned of the extenuating circumstances.”

“What extenuating circumstances?”

“That I was the agent on record for this bank’s most recent premises liability assessment eleven months ago.” He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and jotted a series of numbers on the notepad. “I’m sending you the report along with my current annotations. It’s password protected, but I can provide that as soon as you sign the contract.”

My phone pinged again, and then again.