Page 145 of Not A Whisper

Digging my hand out of the pocket of Lance’s hoodie, I reach over—ignoring the darkness tinting my fingers, the missing nails and blood—and take his free hand. His head jerks toward me. Our eyes lock. There’s a slight tick in his jaw before he swallows and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Let’s get you to a hospital.”

I blink, surprised. “What? No, that can wait. Are you…” Ok seems utterly inadequate. I squeeze his hand. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

By taking your father’s.

Grant says nothing. Reaching up with his free hand, he cups the side of my face. A loud laugh causes us both to jump. I turn to find Jason’s body shaking as he doubles over.

“Jesus, it feels so good to have this bastardgone!” He gasps as he straightens.

Trip snorts. “You’re telling me. God, It’s like an achy tooth has been pulled.”

They both chuckle darkly.

“I would’ve started with his dick since he was so proud swinging that shit around,” Trip tells Grant, looking over at us.

Jason snorts. “It was probably too small of a target.”

They both chuckle again. This time Grant joins in, though the sound is more strained.

I stare around at them, feeling more than a little dazed. Part of me wants to know how they could possibly be laughing right now. Another part of me wants to join in; relief is an overwhelming catalyst to a coming break down—I just know it. Abruptly, all three guys stop laughing. At first I don’t understand why.

But then I hear a soft groan of pain.

“Well, shit, Lance is still alive,” Trip mutters as both he and Jason move toward his body.

He’s alive? Relief is swift and I sag forward, bracing my elbows on my knees to hang my head. “Thank god.”

The sound Grant makes doesn’t sound like agreement.

“He didn’t kidnap me,” I murmur, staring down at Garry’s body. “He told you where I was, and Lance stuck around to try and talk Garry down. He didn’t deservethis.”

Jason crouches down and checks for a pulse. “Alive might be an overstatement. We should probably call the paramedics.” He looks over his shoulder at us. “For you too, dollie.”

“But what about…” I wave my hand toward Garry. “There are going to be questions.”

Grant sighs. His hand comes up and wraps around the back of my neck. I’m not sure if it’s to steady me or himself.

“It was self-defense, we have it all recorded.”

I watch as the three guys all exchange a look. All the amusement is gone now. The moment they share is one of a deeply rooted affection and understanding. For their entire lives they were tormented by the man now lying dead before them.

But now, they’re free.

Thirty-Six

Being a Gipson means I get world-class service at the hospital.

Doctors are waiting on standby as the EMTs from the ambulance roll me in. I’m taken to the top floor, away from other patients to a quiet wing where nurses make sure I’m as comfortable as possible. Then the actual work begins.

Stitches are woven into my skin in various places where my body hit sharp, frozen edges of rocks on the way down into the well. By the time the needles are put away, I think I have over four dozen sutures. I feel like Frankenstein.

After the stitches are done, I’m poked and prodded and tested in every which way.

My thoughts feel sluggish all over again and each limb feels like dead weight. I’ve been given a hospital dress, which isn’t all that warm but at least it beats wearing Lance’s clothes or the guys’. But the paper dress, a room of my own, and a thin blanket aren’t enough to make me feel comfortable or make it easy to relax.

The door opens and closes to my hospital for hours asdoctors and nurses, police and lawyers demand something from me. My statement to the police is brief, after all, what Grant did was self-defense; both shots, of course, since the first one didn’t stop Garry from trying to shoot meagain—or so Grant says. After they leave, more nurses come in to tend to me.

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