When they saw me, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t grief I saw in their eyes. It was annoyance.
“Finally,” Victor said, standing up. He smoothed his expensive Italian suit. “The soldier returns.”
“Where is she?” I growled, stepping forward.
Dominic, the oldest brother, stepped in my path. He was a big guy, a gym rat with vanity muscles and soft hands. He put a hand on my chest.
“Easy, Rambo. She’s not in a state to see anyone right now.”
I looked at his hand on my chest. Then I looked at his eyes.
“Touch me again, Dominic, and you’ll be in the bed next to her.”
He hesitated, the bully’s instinct recognizing a predator, then stepped back. I pushed past them and opened the door.
The sound of the ventilator was the only thing in the room. Whoosh. Click. Whoosh.
I walked to the side of the bed, and my knees almost gave out. If the name on the chart didn’t say Tessa, I wouldn’t have known it was her. Her face was swollen to twice its size. Her jaw was wired shut. One eye was completely sealed, a bulbous mass of purple and black. Her beautiful blonde hair had been shaved on the left side to make room for stitches that ran across her scalp like a railroad track.
I reached out to touch her hand, but it was in a cast. I touched her shoulder instead—the only place that didn’t look broken.
“Tessa,” I whispered. “I’m here. I’m home.”
She didn’t move. The machine just kept breathing for her.
The door opened behind me. It was Detective Miller. He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Mr. Hunter,” Miller said. “I’m sorry.”
“Who did this?” I asked, not turning around. My eyes were fixed on Tessa’s broken face.
“We believe it was a home invasion,” Miller said. “Robbery gone wrong. It happens. They probably panicked when she came downstairs, beat her, took some jewelry, and ran.”
