Page 62 of Web of Lies
“You?”
“No.” I take a breath to collect myself and adjust my speed back to something that won't get me pulled over. “My partner.”
“I thought Jesse was in for a while?”
“He is. I had to get someone else for a job.”
“How bad is it?” he asks. “Knife? Gun?”
“I don't know,” I answer truthfully. “He's bleeding from his side but I didn't take the time to look. I should have looked, that's on me. But he keeps losing consciousness and his face is a mess, so possible head trauma on top of the bleeding.” Fuck. Why didn't I look under his shirt? I should have looked.
“It's late, man. Can't you take him to Bakerton?”
“No,” I clip. “I'm dealing with something else, too. You owe me, Conner.”
“Is it bad?” he asks. “The bleeding?”
“Bleeding is always bad, Conner. Just assume the worst.”
I listen as his girlfriend asks him what's going on. “Listen, baby. You know how I told you I used to work at a vet's office? Yeah. So a friend is coming by in a little bit and I need to help him. Yeah, no, baby. Everything's fine. It's just a situation I need to help with. Yeah, if you could, I would appreciate it. Thank you, baby.”
“That was a sickening number of baby's,” I say flatly. I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I almost had ababyand now she's gone and listening to Conner coddle hisbabymakes me want to hit something.
“Be nice to her, Wyatt. She's going to help tonight.”
“Right. I'll text when I pull up.”
“I'll come out to help get him inside.”
Forty minutes feels like forty years, but I finally pull onto Conner's street and pull into his driveway. I send the short text letting him know I'm here and get out of the car and run around to the back passenger side door to start maneuvering Shaun out of the car.
Conner appears just as I start lifting Shaun out, swearing as he grabs his feet. “Are you sure he isn't dead?”
“He's not dead,” I grunt. He better not be fucking dead.
We get him inside and his girlfriend gasps as she shuts the door behind us. “Conner! This isn't a dog! What the hell?”
I start to drop him onto the couch, but she yells to stop me. “Wait! Not there. Take him to the kitchen and put him on the table. The light is better. I'll be right there. I need to grab more towels.”
Fine. Better light would be better.
“Through there,” Conner grunts, gesturing with his chin toward a door behind me.
We carry Shaun into the kitchen and lay him out on the table. Conner gets to work immediately, wiping away dried blood and pressing in various places. I get out of the way, stepping back to give him more room. I've worked with him often enough to know that he has no problem delegating or asking for help if he needs it.
“Here,” the girlfriend says, walking in with a stack of pristine, white towels. “I'll put them on the counter. What else do you need?”
Conner pulls on Shaun's arm and hip to turn him onto his side and hisses. “Fuck. I need the kit from the back of the linen closet and the bottle of alcohol from under the sink in the bathroom, the big one.”
She turns to go back out, but stops. “The first aid kit, or that black toolbox behind it?”
He gives her a quick smile. “You snoop. Bring the toolbox.”
She blows him a kiss and goes to get the supplies. I'm going to be sick. I can't watch them flirt over Shaun's bleeding body. Watching them be sweet with each other makes my anxiety and worry-fueled anger boil almost to a fever pitch.
“Towel,” Conner orders without looking up from his task. “Two.”
I cross to the counter and hand him the towels and then stand back out of the way again to watch him work. The girlfriend returns with the toolbox, the alcohol, more towels, and the first aid kit. She doesn't step out of the way. She stands beside Conner like any good nurse would, ready to provide fast helping hands.
