A Deep and Dark December(87)

He didn’t have to close his eyes to recall the way Erin’s body had jerked, the way her eyes had widened and her lips had parted as the first bullet hit. Something in him—training, muscle memory—recognized what was happening before his brain could wrap around it, and he was already going for his back up piece as he threw an arm out to catch her. And then the gun was in his hand, his finger pulling the trigger when the second bullet hit her.

He didn’t remember the sound of his gun firing. Erin’s scream had filled his head, blocking every other sound out, including whatever it was his father had said in that last instant before Graham’s finger had fully depressed the trigger. Then, again. And again. Until it clicked empty and Ham lay motionless.

Graham had had to replay everything for Pax and somehow explain to the now acting sheriff why Ham would shoot Erin and why he would empty his gun into his own father. He couldn’t exactly tell Pax what Ham had done or about Erin, the abilities, and the shit storm that was now his life. So he told a half-truth about Ham thinking Erin wasn’t good enough for Graham and about how Ham’s illness had changed him mentally.

Graham crossed his arms over his chest and balled his fists. His shirt was stiff with Erin’s blood mixed with Ham’s. The metallic stench of it made his stomach twist into a sick knot. He swallowed to keep from gagging.

The monitor went from blips to a scream, yanking Graham’s attention back to the bed and the man lying in it.

“He’s crashing!”

Graham was ignored as the team went to work restarting Ham’s heart. Again. Siphoning his focus entirely from the room, his thoughts went to Erin two floors up in surgery. She’d been covered in blood that had just kept coming. He’d held her hand in the ambulance, pressing it to his forehead and willing her to live with everything in him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not like this.

A hand on his arm wrenched him back from his thoughts. He tried to focus on the doctor’s face, thinking he should at least make an effort to remember what she looked like as she told him that the man who had once been his father was dead.

*

God, she hurt. All over. Even her hair hurt. She lay back, absorbing the pain, trying to sift through her memories for the one that would make sense of things. And then it came at her fast and hard, slamming into her as the bullets had.

Graham.

Where was Graham?

She struggled through the drugs that hazed but didn’t ease, pushing her way toward consciousness. The dark room came into focus slowly, an inch at a time and even then she wasn’t entirely sure she’d succeeded in awakening. This had to be a dream.

Her father was slumped in a chair at the foot of her bed, his chin resting on his chest. The buzz of his snore sounded real, but she couldn’t be sure. Her gaze caught on the hand holding hers on the thin white blanket and traveled up the arm to the side of her aunt’s face illuminated by the glow of the TV playing quietly in the background. She moved her fingers, testing to see if she could touch Cerie and really be sure of what she was seeing.

Her aunt turned her head abruptly and gasped. Clasping both of Erin’s hands in hers, Cerie stood and leaned over the bed.

“There you are, chicken.” Cerie brushed her fingers across Erin’s cheek. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” She turned and called out to her brother. “Donald. Donald!”

Erin’s dad shook himself.

“She’s awake,” Cerie informed him.

He rushed to the other side of Erin’s bed, his face creasing into a hopeful smile as he rested his hand over hers. “Hey.”

“H—” Erin cleared her throat and tried again. “Hey. You’re okay.” She switched her attention to her aunt and then to her father again. “Both of you.”

Cerie lowered the guardrail on the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to bump Erin. “We are and you will be, too.”

Erin rolled her head on the pillow, needing to see Cerie’s face. “Graham.” She pulled in a hitching breath. “Where’s Graham?”

Cerie’s gaze flickered to Donald.

“I heard another shot…” Erin bit her lip, unable to finish the sentence.

“Oh, no, chicken, no. He wasn’t shot.”

“Then what?”

“His father died.”

The cool wash of relief flooded her first, followed by the hot shame of being glad that vile, hateful man was dead. No matter what she felt about Ham, what he’d done, he’d been Graham’s father. She couldn’t imagine what Graham must be feeling.

“Where is he?” She wanted to see for herself that he was okay, needed to touch him to be sure.

“He was here.” Donald looked over his shoulder out into the hall as though he expected to find Graham standing in the doorway.

Cerie filled in, “He’s been here off and on… When he could.”

“When I wasn’t here,” Donald said, his voice hard with anger.

“Oh, stop it,” Cerie admonished. “It’s not his fault. He shot his own father protecting your daughter. You can’t seriously blame him for Ham’s deeds.”

Erin jerked upright, gasping at the pain slicing through her. “He what?”

“Lie back.” Cerie gently pushed on her good shoulder. “You’ll hurt yourself.”