“Robert?”
One sharp, short glance. “Unconscious.”
The paramedics rushed into the house. Rowan led them down the hall to Robert’s room, then stepped back as they did their thing.
“Tell me what happened,” Ethan ordered.
With one last look into Robert’s room, she edged down the hall and into her own room. Nash and Ethan followed. She switched on a lamp. The covers were dragged half off the bed and the nightstand drawer hung open. A lockbox lay abandoned on the floor. Rowan strode over and picked it up.
“I got back late. Around eleven. My great uncle had already gone to bed. I went to sleep myself, and I woke up to the sound of gunshots.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“One seventeen. I saw the clock. I thought at first it was a nightmare, then I heard two more shots, followed by a thud from the other room. Robert falling out of bed, I assume. I grabbed my gun and went to check on him.” As she spoke, she smoothly ejected the bullet in the chamber of the Sig and released the magazine, placing it all neatly back in the case. “There was no sign of anyone inside, and he was on the floor, clearly in distress. I called 9-1-1.” Her recitation was flat, almost robotic.
Nash studied her, wondering if she was in shock or if she was hanging on to cop mode to maintain some kind of control.
“Were there any further shots after you called 9-1-1?”
“No.”
Ethan turned to Nash. “You were just across the street. Did you hear anything?”
What else could he say but the truth? “No.”
Rowan did look at him then, skewering him with her eyes. He wanted to protest that answering honestly wasn’t a betrayal, but she wasn’t in any mood to see it that way.
Wheels echoed in the hall as the emergency medical staff rushed the gurney toward the front door.
“I’m going with them.” Rowan fell into step behind them.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Nash told her.
She didn’t even look back. “Don’t bother.”
He stood, rooted in place as she climbed into the ambulance.
She’s upset, he reasoned. She’d calm down once she knew Robert was in the clear. Because he didn’t want to dwell overmuch on what it would do to her if he wasn’t in the clear and because he knew she needed answers, Nash threw himself into work, coordinating with his fellow officers to process the scene.
In the end they found no shell casings, no bullet holes, no slugs, no evidence of a sniper’s nest. Not even any footprints other than their own. He and Ethan even headed back to his house to check the footage from the cameras. Nothing but the doe that habitually wandered through the yard. It spooked a few minutes before 1:17.
As Nash stopped the video, Ethan sat back. “We’ve got no evidence of a shooter.”
“That deer spooked at something”
“You and I both know that could’ve been a coyote or any number of other critters. There’s no hard evidence.”
“No.” And damn, he’d actually wanted something—anything so that there was another answer besides the one he was left with.
“I talked to her captain,” Ethan continued. “He firmly believes she’s suffering from PTSD in the wake of her partner’s death.”
“She told you they’d say that.”
Ethan crossed his arms. “You’ve spent time with her. What do you think?”
Nash scrubbed a hand over his hair. What did he think? “She’s been through a helluva lot the last few months. I think it all took a bigger toll on her than she’s willing to admit.” He thought of her nightmares. She was still playing the events of that night over in her head. But talking about that did feel like a betrayal. “I don’t know if she has PTSD. But I know she’s worried to death about Robert’s health. His condition is real enough. You saw him.”
“Yeah.” Ethan blew out a breath. “Whatever this is, I don’t like it. Neither option is good. I’ve either got some trigger-happy son of a bitch terrorizing some of my citizens or a woman with some prospectively dangerous delusions who could become unstable.”
“I don’t think she’s unstable.” Nash did feel confident in saying that.
“Well, time will tell. We’ll go over the area again in the morning, when we’ve got daylight. Maybe we missed something. Meanwhile, I figure you’re ready to head to the hospital.”
“She told me not to come.” And he was man enough to admit that had stung. They’d been friends, and after earlier tonight, he’d thought they were on their way to maybe being more. But at the first sign of trouble she was throwing up blinking neon signs shouting Back the hell off.
Ethan arched a brow. “You gonna let that stop you?”
Nash paused. “Well, I reckon she will need a ride since she went in the ambulance with him.”
“That’s the spirit. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter 9
Rowan held it together on the ride to the hospital. She clung to her control by fingernails as they rushed him inside, behind the automatically locking doors leading to the operating rooms. Arms wrapped around herself, she’d stood there staring after them until a nurse had kindly pointed her to a chair in the waiting area. She hadn’t called her parents or grandfather. There was no point until she had something concrete to tell them. When another nurse came to tell her that he’d regained consciousness, she’d cried with relief. She’d been certain he wouldn’t wake up again, and she’d been so very afraid.
The nurse had escorted her behind the doors and into a curtained bay to wait, while the doctors ran some kind of tests. It was then she lost her grip on the panic and began to rock, covering her mouth with one hand to hold in the sounds that wanted to pour out. Rowan didn’t know if they were tears or screams, and she was terrified that if she let them out, even an inch, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
She’d heard gunshots. She knew she had. Hadn’t she? But Nash’s house was close enough that he’d have heard, especially if he was awake, as he’d said. The sounds she’d heard weren’t suppressed shots.
So maybe she was crazy. Maybe her nightmares were bleeding into her waking hours. That was a thing. One of the possible symptoms of PTSD, according to Dr. Powers. But she hadn’t been having the nightmare. It was that external sound that had woken her up. Wasn’t it?
Rowan didn’t know. Not for sure. And that not knowing was freaking her the hell out. At least the crazy had meant she’d been awake when Robert fell. She didn’t know if she’d have heard that, and he hadn’t been in any shape to call out for help.
“Ms. Beale?”
She looked up to find a blonde man in surgical scrubs and a lab coat, with a clipboard in hand. Digging deep, she found some scraps of control and lowered her hand. “Yes?”
“I’m Dr. Phillips.”
“How’s my uncle?”
She must have been doing okay on appearances because Dr. Phillips came in to sit on the rolling stool in the corner, without looking alarmed at her behavior. “He’s stable.”
“Was it another heart attack?” Rowan braced herself for the answer, wishing Nash were here, then feeling foolish. He thought she was crazy. She didn’t need him.