Young Truths (Young Series) (47 page)

“Matt?”

I turn suddenly at the familiar voice, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Pushing that aside momentarily, I stare in shock as Claire cautiously enters the hospital room as though she’s expecting to be attacked. Or perhaps for me kick her out. “Hey,” I say quietly. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs slightly, looking at Samantha. “Mom called and said the two of you were here. Then Danny got a call from Marcus and practically flew out of bed to get dressed. I tagged along...” She approaches the end of Samantha’s bed. “Is she okay?”

I nod. “She will be,” I answer softly. “Though I imagine she’s going to have one hell of a headache when she wakes up.” I reach out for her hand, running my thumb along her knuckles. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for her.” I whisper the words, not intending for Claire to actually hear me, but of course she does.

“What do you mean?” she asks softly. “Matt, what the hell happened?”

I frown, wondering how much I should tell her. Marcus’s official report doesn’t say anything about Samantha shooting Mark Reilly; I told him to name me as the shooter, not wanting her to be interrogated any longer than I know we will be once we recover. “For now, let’s just say it’s over. Everything will finally calm down again and my family might actually be safe for once in their lives.”

Claire accepts this, much to my surprise—I know she’s
just bursting with curiosity. “What about you?” she asks so quietly I nearly miss the words.

“What about me?”

“Are you okay?”

I think for a few moments, uncertain of my answer. Am I okay? I’m injured. My entire body is on fire and the adrenaline rush I experienced only hours ago is long gone, replaced by exhaustion beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Physically, no, I’m far from okay. Mentally, emotionally... I’m still not sure. I’m relieved on some
level, confused and angry at a number of people, not least of all at myself, for letting things get this far. I’m anxious for the final ending of this nightmare chapter of our lives, ready to finally move on so my family can have the happily ever after they so deserve. I’m sad thinking about what Samantha had to do tonight in order for us to survive. That was something I never would have wanted her to go through, not even for me. I would have happily traded places with her if I’d been able. I wonder if it would have been easier for her if she’d pulled the trigger on someone else, someone she hadn’t spent months getting to know and like. The outcome would have been the same, but the guilt I know she’ll feel once everything processes for her might have been lessened slightly.

“I don’t know,” I say, finally answering my sister’s question. “Everywhere I turn, I see someone else I’ve hurt. You. Samantha. My children. Mom... This is a fucking nightmare, Claire. It has to be.”

She hesitates for a moment, then sits down in the chair beside me, taking the hand that isn’t holding Samantha’s in both of her own. “Matt, I’m sorry for everything I said to you that day I came by the apartment. It was rude and completely uncalled for, and the only excuse I have is that I was in shock—”

“Claire, stop,” I implore quietly. “You have nothing to apologize for; I know you were upset and I was the best outlet for that. That’s what I’m around for, isn’t it? To be your punching bag?”

She cracks a tiny smile, nudging my shoulder gently. “Shut up,” she murmurs. “Were you going to tell me about Dad and Lucy?”

I look at her in shock. “How did you...”

“Mom told me,” she answers.

“Mom knew?” I ask incredulously.

Claire smirks at me. “Matt, this is the woman who once caught us trying to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night before we’d even left our bedrooms. Do you really think she’d be so blind not to know her husband was having an affair?”

Put like that, I don’t know why I ever thought my father’s infidelity would remain a secret. “I would have told you eventually. I just didn’t think now was the best time when everything is still so raw for you.”

“Always looking out for me,” she grumbles fondly. “One of these days you’re going to realize I’m tougher than I look.”

“I don’t know,” I say musingly as she rests her head on my shoulder. “You look pretty tough to me.”

Neither of us speaks again until Marcus and Danny find us an hour or so later. Apparently reporters are staking out the hospital in an attempt to get a statement about what went on last night and they both advise me to keep my mouth firmly shut. I agree with them on that front; aside from being as anti-media as I am, I wouldn’t know what to say if I did want to talk to them. I’m still trying to process what happened.

After a while, Claire and Danny decide to head home to get some rest, promising to return in the morning. Marcus isn’t far behind them, informing me that two of
his agents are staying behind as protection, though I’m not sure what it is we need protection from, since Frank and his accomplice are both dead. I’m too tired to care. A nurse comes in to check on Samantha and me. There is a second bed in the room, but after tonight, I don’t want to be any further away from my wife than I need to be and there’s plenty of room in her bed. Carefully, I move in beside her, turning her so she’s resting against me. I don’t even care about the pain from my broken ribs, mostly due to the dose of pain medication the nurse gave me before leaving. Luckily it doesn’t take long before I manage to fall asleep.

A murmuring voice wakes me. There isn’t a part of my body that doesn’t ache—my limbs are heavy; my chest feels like it’s exploded; my head is throbbing so hard it’s a wonder I woke up at all. It doesn’t take much thought to figure out I’m once again in a hospital bed, though for the life of me, I can’t recall why. My last really clear memory is getting a text message from Matthew asking where I was and if I was coming home soon. After that, everything’s a bit fuzzy.

I force open my eyes and risk further pain by turning my neck slightly. It must be very early morning judging by the
grayish tinge coming through the windows. A smile finds its way to my lips when I see the familiar man standing with his back facing me as he looks outside and holds his cell phone to his ear. While my first instinct is to call out to him, I just watch him for a few minutes. There are times when his entire demeanor changes from the funny, flirty man I met when I was nineteen to the young, successful businessman he’s made himself into through hard work, dedication, and sheer brilliance. It still catches me off-guard to see this side of him—he tends to leave that persona in the office, though every so often, it comes home with him—but it never fails to fascinate and turn me on.

I snort a soft laugh, rolling my eyes at myself at my thoughts—I could be on my deathbed, but Matthew could still turn my thoughts to the naughtier side of things.

Unintentionally, I seemed to have drawn his attention. He’s turned away from the window and his eyes widen when he sees me looking back at him. Muttering something about calling back whoever he’s talking to, he shuts off his phone, slips it into his pocket, and slowly crosses the room, watching me like he thinks if he even blinks, I’ll disappear before his very eyes. He sits gingerly beside me and reaches out to run his knuckles down the side of my face.

I smile at the touch. “This is familiar,” I murmur, leaning into his hand. He smiles slightly and my vision clears slightly. I gasp sharply at what I see. It looks as though his face has been stomped on. One eye is swollen shut. His lip is split open. A bandage has been placed over the bridge of his nose suggesting it might be broken. There are cuts on the side of his cheek. “What happened to you?”

He stills completely. “You don’t remember?” he asks, speaking so quietly I suspect he’s hoping I won’t hear him.

I shake my head very slightly, images of memories flashing through my mind. Coming home to find Matthew wasn’t there. Worrying about what might have taken him away. My brow furrows deeper. I checked the GPS program, hoping to get an idea of where he’d gone. And I gasp again. “Frank,” I breathe. The machine beside my bed that keeps track of my heart rate begins beeping more quickly. Matthew reaches across me to turn the noise down, wincing as he does so. “Frank had you.”

He nods slowly. “Yes,” he answers reluctantly.

“And I picked the lock on the handcuffs holding you to a pole...” I look down at his left wrist, the one with his watch wrapped around it and see a large red welt has developed. “I don’t remember anything after that...”

Matthew swallows hard. “That’s because Frank came in the room and hit you in the head with the butt of a handgun,” he says, his voice cold and hard. “You were out cold for a while.”

“What happened after that?” I ask. “I think I remember a noise, something really loud. The rest is—” I stop speaking suddenly as the rest comes back to me. It’s like an out of body experience, watching myself from above as I push myself off the ground carefully and quietly. I reach for a gun that’s lying in arm’s reach and stand behind somebody who’s holding another gun on my husband. There hadn’t been another option, I remember that, and I said something, causing the person in front of me to turn around before I pulled the trigger.

I suddenly feel sick when I realize I’ve shot somebody. My vision is swimming in front of me, there’s a loud ringing in my ears, and the room feels way too hot. Matthew is leaning over me, talking to me, though I can’t hear what he’s saying. I can see Mark now in my mind, turning around and looking at me in shock as he stumbles backwards, blood pouring from his chest. I’m having difficulty breathing and it only gets worse when a nurse rushes into the room, forcing Matthew to step away from my bed as she injects something into my IV. Less than a minute later, Matthew is sitting beside me again, watching me worriedly as my eyes slide shut again.

“How is she?”

I run my hands roughly down my face as Marcus’s question. He arrived a few minutes ago with much needed breakfast and coffee. “She was awake for a bit this morning,” I report tonelessly, watching her and remembering how her expression went from distraught to peaceful in a matter of seconds. “She remembered what happened.”

Marcus winces. “How’d she take it?”

I drag my gaze away from Samantha to look at him. “She had a fucking panic attack. The nurse had to come in and give her a sedative to calm her down before she hurt herself.”

“I’d be surprised if she hadn’t had one,” Marcus replies. “It’s not an easy thing to accept, shooting someone, particularly when it’s someone you liked and trusted. You’re going to have to deal with this very carefully, Matt. She needs to talk about it, no matter how painful it might be for her or for you.”

“You didn’t see her face,” I argue. “I’ve never seen her look like that. She was terrified and deva
stated all at the same time, but there was something else, too... She was almost... I don’t know... defiant.”

“Of course she was,” Marcus scoffs. “Matt, that bastard had a gun trained on you. Samantha did the only thing she could in order to save your life—she shot him first. She’s going to be upset and confused and a million other things, but above all, she’s not going to apologize for what she did. Not really. You’d feel the same way. If somebody had threatened her and you had the means to save her by shooting that person, it wouldn’t matter to you who it was; all that would matter is that she would be safe. Am I wrong?”

I shake my head. This thought has drifted through my mind over the last several hours. I would have killed anybody who threatened to harm Samantha, my best friend included.

“All I’m saying is that you don’t want to just let her sit and stew over what happened. Don’t let her just push it aside; it’ll eat her up if you do.”

My brow furrows slightly. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I am,” he says shortly, his mild tone indicating he has no intention of clarifying.

I nod, turning my gaze back to Samantha. “What’s going on with Holly?’

Marcus takes a sip of his coffee before answering. “She’s being held on murder charges,” he says quietly as though speaking in a louder voice might make it more difficult for me to handle the news. “From what I can tell, Frank Marone had her wrapped around his pinky finger for months. He practically brainwashed her.
Her confession is nearly ten pages long and while the official reason Marone concocted might have been to get his hands on your father’s company, the cover story was that Holly found out about the affair Paul was having with Lucy and she snapped, killing Lucy as a result.”

“Nice,” I mutter sarcastically. “Make it look like the dedicated, betrayed daughter avenging her mother. I swear to God, Marcus, if Frank wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

“Yeah, about that...” Marcus says leadingly. “You said you don’t want it known that Samantha was the one who...” His eyes dart to Samantha briefly. I get the idea. “Anyway, she needs to be aware of the story we report. I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to keep her name off that—I’d do the same thing if my wife was in this position, horrible as that is to imagine—but if she slips up when she decides to start talking to people, she’s not the only one who could be in trouble. I could lose my job and be thrown into jail for falsifying a federal report. You could be charged with perjury. It’s not a scenario any of us wants to go through.”

I silently agree. “Why my family?” I ask after a few quiet minutes. “I get why they wanted me out of the way and I could have come to terms with that, but they dragged my entire family into this mess, Marcus. My wife, my children, my parents, my sisters...”