Actual Stop (Agent O’Connor #1)(83)

After a bit, she flicked her pen light off and tucked it back into the pocket of her white coat. In the same motion, she reached up to retrieve a stethoscope, which’d been slung carelessly around the back of her neck. I must’ve been really doped up because I didn’t notice her attire until then.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked, as though the surgical scrubs and white lab coat with her name embroidered on the left breast didn’t provide enough of a clue. My voice sounded rough and raw, barely more than a whisper. My throat was a raging inferno. Each syllable that passed through my lips was like swallowing broken glass, and a sharp, stabbing sensation encompassed the entire right side of my back in time with every breath I took.

Rory ignored my inquiry. Instead, she inserted the stethoscope into her ears and placed the pad against my chest, inside the neck of my hospital gown.

“Breathe in for me,” my sister directed. Her sea-foam green eyes were unfocused as she concentrated.

I complied, though even that simple act was an effort. The right side of my body from my shoulder down to my knee felt like someone had worked it over with a two-by-four.

Rory relocated the stethoscope slightly farther down my chest. “Again.” And when I’d followed that order, she repeated the process. The entire experience couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds, but time felt slippery, the whole thing dreamlike.

Once she’d finished, she replaced the instrument so it dangled off her again like a fashion accessory and took my wrist. She consulted her watch as she held me and then nodded, appearing satisfied.

A heavy-set woman with a cheerful face and a chaotic halo of curly ashen hair entered the room. She, too, wore scrubs and was carrying a folder, but I was too busy trying to keep my eyes open to make much sense of anything. The woman’s sparkling eyes landed on me, and she beamed.

The newcomer shifted her attention to my sister and consulted the folder briefly. “Evan O’Connor?” Her tone was questioning, as though she was trying to verify the information. “E-A-V-A-N. Is that how you say that? ‘Evan’?”

Rory held out her hand, silently asking for the papers. “It’s pronounced ‘even,’ actually. But we just call her Ryan.”

Confusion drifted across the woman’s merry countenance much the way clouds float in front of the sun. She glanced back at the papers in her hand before handing them to my sister. “Where did you get ‘Ryan’ from?”

“Her middle name. Aeryn.”

“Oh. Well, that’s different.” The woman somehow managed to sound happily excited by just about everything, which amused me for some reason. She nodded and smiled at me again. “Nice to finally meet you, Ryan. I’m glad you’re awake.” She turned back to Rory. “I’ll page her doctor now. Unless you need me to take care of something else first.”

Rory was flipping through the pages of what I could only presume was my file. “No,” she murmured distractedly. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

The woman left, and my sister and I were alone. I was exhausted and struggled to keep my eyes open, drifting for a while as Rory read. I wanted to go back to sleep but was afraid of what I’d miss if I did. I had no idea how much time passed before Rory spoke again.

“How are you feeling?”

I shot her a dirty look. Well, as dirty as a look could possibly be with the full use of only one eye, which, if her facial expression was any indication, wasn’t very. “Fantastic.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Any headache or nausea?”

A smart-ass response welled up within me, but I didn’t let it loose. I considered the question. “Headache. No nausea.”

She set my chart down on the nightstand and gently probed the swollen tissue surrounding my left eye. I hissed at the unexpected pain and tensed, which didn’t help the aching sensations in the rest of me.

“Your stitches look good. The swelling is definitely going down.”

“Hooray,” I murmured. I was trying to recall how I’d ended up here, but my thoughts were sluggish.

As if reading my mind, Rory asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

I frowned, ignoring the dull throb the motion brought to the area of my injured eye. Dim flashes of memory swam around in my head, broken and disjointed. “Maybe.”

Something flickered in Rory’s eyes as she watched me, and while my brain fog wouldn’t let me identify the exact emotion I saw playing there, I did know I didn’t like it. My heart-rate monitor picked up speed in time with my racing pulse.

“Well, these definitely aren’t injuries I want to read about in my baby sister’s chart,” Rory informed me, changing the subject abruptly.

I sighed, but my thoughts had strayed back to recent events. I mentally catalogued the battery of aches and pains plaguing me, trying to assign a cause. Something was nagging me, and I was determined to figure out what.

Rory regarded me for a long moment, her countenance serious. Her hair was a little messy—which was unheard of for her—and she looked nearly as exhausted as I felt.

After a bit, she moved to a small rolling table nestled up against the wall and retrieved a gleaming metal bedpan, which she brought over. I eyed it warily, but she didn’t relinquish it.

“I don’t have to go right now,” I informed her.

“I know you don’t. You have a catheter in.”