To the Stars (Thatch #2)(93)

I smiled politely at the doctor when he walked out of Harlow’s room, and said, “I have to go now; I’ll keep you updated.” As soon as I was able to hang up, I walked into the room and took my seat next to Harlow’s bed.

My truck had flipped twice, but the impact had been mostly on my side—and the worst of my injuries had only given me problems directly after. I’d had trouble getting my legs to move but was fine for the most part now. Even still, my captain had informed me over the phone that I was looking at at least a month off because of getting shot. They’d removed the bullet and sewn me up, and had barely been able to keep me there long enough to bandage me before I’d tried to leave to find Harlow’s room.

Deacon and Graham were fine, just a little bruised from when they’d smashed into the back of the SUV Collin had been driving. And Collin was gone. That final bullet could have gone anywhere, from the way Harlow had explained the gun had been pinned between them. But somehow it’d gone between both their bodies, through Collin’s throat, and up into his brainstem. He’d died immediately.

Harlow was malnourished—not a surprise. She had bruises all over her body and cracked ribs—almost all of which were from Collin prior to today. The reason the doctor had been in there just then had been to talk to her about the X-ray and scans they’d done on her skull. But the doctor had refused to talk with me in the room since I wasn’t family, so I’d stepped out to give her parents another update.

“What’d he say?” I asked gently.

“I’ve hit my head a lot.” Harlow shrugged. “Really, he didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Just that I need to avoid hitting my head from now on, that I was lucky there wasn’t permanent damage, and that it was likely if I do hit my head again—if it’s hard enough—each time I will probably go unconscious for some period of time. But I’d kind of started figuring that out on my own. It’s happened every time lately.”

I clenched my jaw, but tried to relax by repeating over and over that Collin couldn’t touch her again. “It won’t happen again,” I reminded her, and she just nodded.

Harlow had been different since she woke up and realized there was no danger; reserved, almost. I’d mentioned it in the ambulance, and she’d shaken her head. I’d brought it up again after we’d gotten to the hospital and things had calmed down, and she’d just looked away from me. And she hadn’t once looked at me since.

“Your family is already trying to get tickets back here. Hayley and her family are coming, too. They’ll call me when they have something.”

And that time, it looked like she hadn’t even heard me. Instead of pushing it, I just sat back and waited.

When another thirty minutes went by without her saying anything or looking in my direction, I slowly stood from my chair. My chest ached, but I didn’t know what to do.

I stared at the back wall and swallowed a few times before I trusted myself to speak. “I guess I’ll, uh, I’ll let you rest.”

Harlow didn’t respond, but when I turned to leave, I saw the tears falling down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” I asked softly, and tried to rein in my frustration when she still didn’t answer. I sat on the edge of her bed, gripped her chin gently in my fingers, and turned her head so she was looking at me. “Come back to me,” I begged, and the ache in my chest grew when her chin began quivering and a sob forced its way up her throat.

“I killed him,” she said between muted sobs. “I killed him, Knox.”

I gripped her hand in mine, and exhaled in relief when I felt her squeeze back. “He was going to kill you,” I reminded her. “He tried to kill you.”

“But I don’t want to have this on me,” she cried out, and lifted her hands up, as if Collin’s blood would be there. “I don’t want to know that I took someone’s life—no matter what the reason! And I—” She broke off, and sobbed as she shook her head.

“You what?”

Long moments passed as she continued to cry and shake her head while murmuring, “I was ready to die.” Harlow eventually looked up at me and shrugged, like she didn’t know how to explain it. “I knew it was happening, and I knew it was how it was supposed to happen. I was okay with it. I knew you were going to be okay, and I was okay. I hate that I was okay! What does that mean for me?”

“Nothing,” I assured her, and pulled her close.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, like she was ashamed. “I smiled. I smiled because I knew it was all as it should’ve been. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” I repeated, and held her as she cried everything away. During that time she started relaxing into me and clinging to me, now that she’d finally let her worries out.

It felt like hours had passed when she said, “I don’t know how to feel about it all. I feel wrong . . . broken.”

I smiled and corrected her. “Cracked.” Pulling back enough so I could tilt her head up, I searched her eyes and promised, “But I’m going to fix it. I love you, Harlow.”

She smiled shakily, and one hand lifted to frame my mouth as she leaned in to kiss me. But just before her mouth met mine, she vowed, “To the stars.”