Vanishing Girls (Detective Josie Quinn #1)(49)

“Josie?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?” Carrieann asked. “You look really pale.”

Josie waved a dismissive hand, her mind running on overdrive. “Fine, I’m fine.”

What if Blackwell’s case was connected to the Coleman case, as Josie suspected? She thought about Ray repeatedly telling her to leave the Coleman case alone. Was Denton PD involved? What about the chief? Did he know who was behind the missing girls? Was that why he hadn’t called in the FBI in the Coleman case? Was that why he had changed Josie’s status from paid suspension to unpaid suspension right after she had brought him the lead connecting Coleman to June Spencer?

Carrieann clamped a sweat-damp palm onto Josie’s forearm and whispered urgently, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s the surgeon.”

Josie looked up and, sure enough, a tall, burly man in blue scrubs and matching blue surgical cap was coming through the door. With a grim, fixed expression, he walked toward them. Carrieann’s fingers tightened on Josie’s arm. Together, they stood to greet him.

“You’re here for Luke Creighton?” he asked.

Josie opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were so dry she could barely part them. Carrieann pulled Josie closer to her and spoke for both of them. “Yes,” she said. “I’m his sister and this is his fiancée.”

The man introduced himself. “I’m the attending trauma surgeon. My team is closing Mr. Creighton up as we speak. He is stable, for now, but there was a lot of internal damage. Two bullets to his chest.” He pointed toward his right side, in the area just below the collarbone. “The first one missed his heart, but it fragmented once inside—both bullets did—and caused a lot of damage to the surrounding structures.” He pointed lower and more toward the center. “The second bullet lacerated his spleen, so we had to remove it. We were able to remove most of the fragments and stitch up what we could. He is very lucky to be alive. We’re going to move him to the ICU and keep him there in a medically induced coma until his body begins to recover from the trauma. I have to warn you though, his injuries are extensive and severe. He—”

“What are his odds?” Josie blurted. She couldn’t take any more of the doctor’s words. Severe. Trauma. Extensive. Fragmented. It was too much. All she wanted to know were his chances of survival.

The doctor grimaced. “I can’t really give you odds.”

“Guess. Your best guess. A percentage. Something. Anything. We won’t hold you to it. We already know that he is in very bad shape. We knew that the moment he was shot. The only reason he’s alive is because of you and your team. We understand that the rest is out of your control. But please. What are his chances?”

He stared at the two of them for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable with the scenario. Then he said, “Fifty-fifty.”





Chapter Forty





They got to see him for ten minutes each, but no more, and that was about all Josie could take. Luke’s large frame was dwarfed by the sheer amount of machinery needed to keep him alive. Tubes and wires seemed to extend from every part of him, IVs snaking from both arms, his hands and the crooks of his elbows. A large tube was jammed into his mouth and taped there. His blue hospital gown was haphazardly thrown across him and, from beneath it, zigzagging across his chest, were wire leads connecting to various machines. Multicolored numbers flashed across the monitors that surrounded them. On his head was a large blue shower cap. He didn’t look like Luke at all.

She approached the bed slowly, afraid she might dislodge something important. It was freezing in the room, and she wondered if he was warm enough. But he was always warm. He’d often wake to open one of the windows in her bedroom in the middle of the night, only to have her get up to close it later. “Leave it open,” he would whisper sleepily from the bed. “I’ll warm you up.”

The memory hit her hard like a baseball bat across her shoulders. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. Tears blurred her vision. She took a stumbling step toward the bed and tried to find a place on his arm where her hand would fit. She needed to touch him, to feel his body warm beneath her palm. She needed him to know she was there. The wiry hairs of his forearm were springy beneath her hand. His skin was cool and dry. She squeezed gently. More tears spilled from her eyes as she realized there was no way he could feel her touch. Not with all the artificial life-saving, vital-monitoring equipment attached to him and the remnants of the anesthesia from his surgery. She couldn’t even imagine what they were pumping him full of to keep him under.

“Luke,” she choked. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’m so—” Her voice broke, and she had to gather herself. “I’m so sorry that this happened. Please don’t—please don’t—”

She couldn’t finish. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t angry about Denise Poole and her stupid painting or about the closet door he had bought. She just wanted him to be okay.

But then the nurse was there, softly ushering her out of the room and out of the ICU altogether. The closing of the swinging door behind her sounded like her heart cracking in two. Wiping tears away with the sleeve of her jacket, she found her way to the small waiting room where Carrieann enveloped her in a long hug that crushed the breath out of her. She was glad when it was over.