Detective Collins returned that afternoon with another officer. Mom gave her the documents.
Collins studied them for several minutes.
“Mrs. Bennett, I need permission to obtain certain financial records.”
“You have it.”
“And you may want independent legal representation.”
“I already called someone.”
I turned toward Mom.
“You did?”
She shrugged.
“I had a productive morning.”
For the first time since waking in the hospital, I felt something close to relief.
It lasted until Detective Collins asked one more question.
“Mrs. Bennett, did Gerald know your daughter was staying home Saturday night?”
Mom frowned.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“We discussed it at breakfast.”
The detective exchanged a look with the officer.
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Collins hesitated.
“We pulled preliminary phone records.”
“And?”
“Gerald spoke to Ryan six times Saturday.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“Maybe.”
She turned one page in her notebook.
“The final call happened at 10:07 p.m.”
Eight minutes before Ryan arrived.
I looked at Mom.
Her face went completely still.
Detective Collins continued carefully.
“We don’t know what was said yet.”
But I remembered Ryan screaming from the curb.
You should’ve stayed out of Dad’s business.
For the first time, I wondered whether Gerald’s overnight trip had really been an absence.
Or an alibi.
### Part 5
I spent three days in the hospital. By the second night, I hated everything about the room: the plastic water cup, the stiff blanket, the fluorescent hallway light leaking beneath the door, and especially the monitor that refused to let me forget I was being observed.
Jenna drove down from Phoenix on Monday.
She walked in carrying coffee and one look at my face made her stop.
“You look terrible.”
“That line is getting old.”
“Good. Means people love you enough to insult you.”
She sat beside me and placed the coffee where I could reach it with my uninjured hand.
“Captain Hayes says you’re not allowed back until three doctors and possibly the governor approve.”
“Tell her she’s dramatic.”
“She said you’d say that.”
We talked about work for twenty minutes because work was safe. Then Jenna looked at the bandages and stopped pretending.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
“I’m not scared of what happened.”
“What are you scared of?”
“That I missed everything before it happened.”
She leaned back.
“You’re a paramedic, not a psychic.”
“I saw pieces.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t put them together.”
“Because they were family.”
That was the sentence I didn’t want.
Family had always been the word people used to excuse bad information.
He’s family.
She’s family.
You don’t abandon family.
Nobody ever seemed to say family should make people behave better.
Tuesday morning, Mom came to discharge me.
The nurse helped me into loose clothes because anything touching the bandages near my shoulder felt unbearable. My hair hadn’t been properly washed in days, my wrist was immobilized, and walking made me feel ninety.
We drove toward Mom’s house in silence.
About two blocks away, she said, “There are people outside.”
I looked up from my phone.
At first I thought there had been another police incident.
Then I saw them.
Thirty, maybe thirty-five people lined both sides of the sidewalk near the house.
Some wore uniforms.
Others wore jackets with veteran, fire, or EMS patches.
Several were older men. A few were women about my age.
One man near the front sat in a wheelchair.
I had never seen him before.
Mom slowed the car.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
She pulled into the driveway.
Nobody cheered.
Nobody clapped.
That somehow made it more overwhelming.
They just stood there.
Waiting.
Mr. Aldridge rolled around from the side of the house.
Of course he did.
He reached my passenger door and opened it.
“They wanted to come,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Who?”
He looked toward the sidewalk.
“Them.”
“That clears up nothing.”
“Good. You’re still annoying.”
I laughed, then winced.
Mr. Aldridge leaned closer.
“Take your time.”
I stepped out.
The October sun was bright and clean, and for one strange second all I could hear was birds in the mesquite tree.
Then a woman near the front stepped forward.
She looked about fifty, silver streaks in her dark hair, EMS patch on her jacket.
“Leah Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Rachel Morgan. Retired Mesa EMS.”
I shook her hand awkwardly with my left.
She nodded toward Mr. Aldridge.
“Tom made a few calls.”
“A few?”
That earned quiet laughter.
The unknown man in the wheelchair rolled closer.
“Army, 1970 to ’72,” he said. “Tom and I served in different units but met through a veterans group thirty years ago.”
He held out his hand.
“Name’s Calvin Ross. I came because Tom told me what you did.”
Heat rushed to my face.
“I didn’t—”
“I know.”
He interrupted gently.
“That’s why we came.”
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