Page 33 of Not This Soon

"Yes."

The machine hummed, documenting each pulse, each breath. The needle on the graph moved in a steady rhythm, mimicking Grant's calm heartbeat.

Grant's expression remained cool, placid. He looked as though he was sitting in his luxurious office chair instead of the hot seat of a polygraph machine. His gaze never wavered from the technician's face, his voice never faltered.

Outside, Rachel felt her stomach twist into knots. Each of Grant's affirmatives was like a punch to her gut. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.

She turned to Ethan. "We're going to need to dig deeper into Robert Morris."

Ethan nodded solemnly, his face tight with worry. "If it comes to that."

Rachel let out a bitter laugh, "It's already come to that, Ethan."

Ethan didn't respond. If Grant walked out of that room in the clear, they had only one suspect left.

To accuse the victim’s own father?

It would send everything into chaos. But she’dshotat the killer. She could’ve sworn she’d made contact. But if the killer had an accomplice, or was only winged, maybe he’d been able to hide the injury.

But it wasn't Grant. So, was Robert hiding a gunshot wound? Had she missed?

She shook her head, frustration mounting. Already, the next step seemed apparent. But it wasn’t going to make her any friends.

CHAPTER NINE

The assassin emerged from the hospital room, his arm swathed in fresh bandages. He glanced furtively down the corridor. No police. No security. Just the steady hum of monitors and the distant chatter of nurses. Relief washed over him.

He had evaded capture in the desert. His wound had been tended to. But his work was not done.

As he strode, he whispered softly under his breath. “Forgive me… Forgiveme…He grimaced as he strode forward, shaking his head side to side.”

He moved down the hallway, his footsteps measured, deliberate. The promise he had made echoed in his mind. To continue his mission. His mercy work.

He had no choice. No matter how much it ate at him.

He remembered when it had all started. Those frail bones under that bubbly, churning river.

He could still feel the pulse fading under his fingertips. “Oh, please,” he said, biting back a sob, pleading to the ceiling. “Please… forgive…” he trailed off, closing and opening his eyes like the lens on a camera shutter.

The hospital teemed with suffering. With souls in need of absolution. In need of prayer.

He scanned the faces of patients as he passed. An elderly man hunched in a wheelchair. A young woman clutching her abdomen. A child with a cast on his leg.

So much pain. So much anguish.

His fingers twitched at his side, longing to reach out. To lay hands upon them. To whisper the sacred words that would ease their torment.

But he restrained himself. He needed to choose carefully. To find the one who needed him most.

The man turned to him, expression worn. “Can I assist you in prayer?”

The man nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The assassin offered a soft prayer, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over him. He moved from one person to the next, repeating his offer. More often than not, he was met with acceptance. It seemed there was always room for hope, even in places filled with pain and despair.

He approached a younger man with a thick bandage around his face.

The man turned, a grimace etched upon his weathered face. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"I was wondering if you would like some prayer?" the assassin offered.

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