“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Who spoke for Theresa Chambers? Nobody. We messed up. Bud killed her. He got away with it because he was a cop.”
“Theresa Chambers was killed by Craig Factor, Will. You know that.”
“Bud Chambers had been separated from his wife. She had a restraining order against him. He had beaten her up once, and the patrol guys let it go. We fucked this one up, Cindy.”
She winced from his profanity, or maybe because he called her Cindy. He couldn’t tell which.
“I understand how strongly you feel.” She touched his knee again. “But just because a cop is separated from his wife doesn’t mean he should be a suspect. We’ve been separated for more than a year.”
He realized she was making a joke. He forced himself to laugh even as his stomach dropped. It was time to shut up.
“I’ll try to do better. I won’t bother Dodds.”
They sat quietly, more aware of the overhead lights as the city was overtaken by the early dusk.
“I talked to the woman in charge of rehab today,” Will said. “She said you could talk to her about starting the process to get me out of here, bring me home.” He laughed. “Everything’s a ‘process’ now.”
Cindy sighed and nervously tugged at her skirt.
“It would be nice to come home for Christmas.”
“This is too soon,” she said. “I see how you need help to even get into your wheelchair. We’d have to modify the house with ramps…”
“So I’ll get a couple of big cops to wrestle me into a car.”
“And what about when you’re home? I can’t even begin to…”
He reached over and took her hand. “You won’t have to. I can be very self-sufficient. You’d be amazed at what I can accomplish just here in the hospital. I won’t be trouble. Pretty soon I’ll be walking.”
Her gaze moved past him, again. “We haven’t lived together in a long time.”
He felt a paw grip his insides. He said quietly, “I know.”
“Your doctors say you’ll need a lot of physical therapy.”
“I’ll get it. I’ll do a lot better on the outside. God, I can’t even sleep. Can’t you talk to them? Please, Cindy, get me out of this place.” He knew he was pleading. He couldn’t stop the urgent cadence of his voice.
“I brought your stuff.”
He could tell she was managing him.
He was too tired to fight her. Too scared. After a moment, he looked through the bag she had brought. Another two pairs of sweatpants and some T-shirts, a CD player and CDs, small packets of Kleenex, his wallet with cash inside.
“Thanks. I haven’t even been able to buy a Coke.” He paused. “I feel bad that I wasn’t able to get you a Christmas present. Remember, the doctors wouldn’t let me drive once they found the tumor.”
