Callie slipped the gun into one of the deep pockets in the coat. As much as she wanted to rush into the hospital and demand to know where Teague was, she had to take care of the weapon first. She skirted the edge of the buildings, following the street down to the overpass leading to the waterfront. There were better ways to go about disposing evidence, but this would have to do. She didn’t like trusting Finch not to gather evidence and press charges against her, but there was no other option. He had her backed into a corner. It was entirely possible he actually saw her shoot those two men, which meant there wasn’t a jury in this country that would find her not guilty.
It was a worry for another day.
She moved through the trees at the water’s edge. It was remarkably deserted, and she wasted no time wiping the gun down and flinging it as far into the water as her strength could carry it. She waited a few moments to see if anyone saw her do it, then turned around and strode back to the hospital buildings.
It took twenty minutes to get any information at all about Teague—despite the fact that she kept telling them she was his wife—and another ten to be guided to the right part of the hospital. The nurse pointed to the waiting area with the impatient air of someone who’d done it countless times before. “He’s in surgery. The doctor will be out once they’re done putting him back together.”
One hell of a beside manner. She muttered her thanks and sank onto the faded blue chairs. Or maybe they were gray. It was impossible to say. Callie should call someone, let them know where Teague was. Or, God, wash her hands. She looked down at the blood crusting her palms, and the overwhelming urge to curl up and sob flowed over her like a tidal wave.
Her hands shook, the tremors working their way through her entire body. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her lungs tried to close, each breath seeming to tear itself free. She bent over, resting her forehead on her knees, and closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. All she could smell was smoke and blood and something she suspected was her own fear.
She lurched to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom. The cold water felt good on her skin, but it wasn’t doing a damn thing to get the blood off. She turned it hotter and pumped a bunch of soap into her hands. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink and there wasn’t the slightest trace of blood. There was no help for her clothing, though.
With a sigh, she made her way back to the waiting room. The nurse at the station didn’t look particularly happy to see her, but when she asked to use a phone, she pointed Callie to a public one down the hall.
And then the calls started. First, to her father, who didn’t answer. I’m fine. I’m at the hospital. Then to Carrigan, who also didn’t pick up. Teague’s been shot. We’re at the hospital. And, finally, to Micah, who did pick up. “Where the hell have you been?”
Her throat tried to close. Again. “I’m at Mass General.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes. It was Teague who was shot. I’m fine.” Or as fine as she could be, considering the circumstances.
“Thank Christ.” He blew out a breath. “I’m on my way down to the jail. Your father and pretty much everyone he took with him to deal with the Hallorans are locked up.”
Locked up was better than dead. She wasn’t sure when she’d made that belief transition, but she didn’t see herself going back anytime soon. “What are the charges?”
“I don’t know yet. Do you need me to swing by on my way?”
As much as she was loath to stall him, she couldn’t keep walking around the hospital in bloodstained clothing. “If you have a change of clothes in the car, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
She hung up and leaned her forehead against the wall. Papa was locked up, Teague was in the operating room, and God alone knew where the rest of his family and the Hallorans were. It felt like she was the last person standing.
It was a horribly lonely place to be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Teague woke up to the steady sound of beeping. He opened his eyes, squinting in the low light