“It’s nice to see you,” I lie. Looking at her still fucks with my chest.
“You too. And I mean that. I heard last night was pretty crazy.” Without warning she steps forward and wraps her arms around my torso. She smells the same, but her flowery shampoo doesn’t have the same effect on me anymore. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers.
“Thank you.”
She steps away and straightens her shirt. Then wipes her eyes. “So you’re here to see our special patient.”
“Yeah. I wanted to check in on her. Like you said, kind of a crazy night.”
“She’s been asking about you. Cliff Watson’s manning the door.” Of course. Ongoing murder investigation. Couldn’t leave the surviving witness unattended.
“Thanks.”
“But take it easy. She's really shaken up.”
“Understandable.” I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I guess I'll see you around then.”
“I guess you will.” She holds up her now bare ring finger. I flash her a tight smile and continue down the hall. Sarah is a good girl. Too good. Not the woman for me.
When I turn the corner, I find Cliff Watson where she said he'd be.
“Visiting hours aren't until later,” he says in his gravelly voice. The Watsons don’t care for any of the Olsens. The feeling is mutual.
“I'll keep that in mind when I come back later to check on her,” I say.
“Have it your way. You deal with Fern’s wrath and Jerry’s.”
I roll my eyes and knock on the door that is part way open anyway. Claudia opens her eyes and looks at me.
“Hey. Hi. Is it okay if I come in?” I ask.
“Hi. Yeah.” She lets out a weak cough as I step inside. “Shep.”
“Yeah that's me. Wanted to come check on you.”
“See how I was doing?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Do you mind if I sit?”
“No. Please. Can you pull the chair there though? It hurts when I move my head to the side too much.”
“Of course.” I pick up the blue chair and move it further down the length of the bed.
“It's nice to see someone who isn't in some type of uniform. One of the sheriffs told me they found my brother.”
There is absolutely nothing I can say. “They didn't tell me much."
"But they talked to you?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"I owe you—"
"You don't owe me anything."
"Except my life." I look down at the pale blue hospital blanket as she opens her bandaged hand. The tips of her fingers are scratched up, but clean. And not bleeding. I gently take her hand.
"Please stay for a while,” she says.