Page 168 of Hush

Going home was a depressing experience.

The one spot of happiness was Etta Mae, waiting for him with a pink bandana and a ribbon around her neck, galloping down the hall as soon as he and Winters walked in. Winters held her back so she wouldn’t hurt his arm—she had to sniff every inch of his cast and sling—and then she trotted at his heels, never letting him out of her sight.

“Did she get a bath?”

“I took her to get groomed this morning. She’s been staying with me.”

Tom didn’t know how to react to that.

Winters showed him the fridge, which had been stocked with the basics, and his countertops, covered with bread, apples, chips, salsa, soup, and crackers. “If there’s anything you need, call us.”

He closed his eyes, not sure how to ask for what he really needed. It wasn’t fear, not anymore. Months ago, in this very spot, he’d told Mike he was gay. Now, he was staring at Mike’s boss and trying to figure out how to keep his heart from breaking.

“I need to see Mike.”

Winters frowned. “That’s not a good idea. We’re keeping both of you under protective watches. It’s best for you to lay low right now. Don’t make yourself—or him—any more of a target.”

He closed his eyes. “How is he? Really?”

“Not good. But he’s a fighter. Every day he’s getting a bit better.”

“Please, there has to be a way I could see him? Even for just a few minutes? Anytime, even if it’s the middle of the night. Whatever you think—”

Winters sighed. “He’s in a coma, Judge Brewer. The doctors have put him in a medically-induced coma. He won’t know you’re there.”

His heart shattered. He wanted to vomit, wanted to collapse to the floor, wanted to scream and shriek at Winters to just let him go. Let him be at Mike’s side. Damn it, Mikewouldknow he was there, he would. And he’d wake up, and the first thing he’d see would be Tom. They’d smile and kiss, and everything would be fine. It would all be fine.

“He’s in isolation. The hospital isn’t letting us in to see him either. Every day, I call for an update. I will call you immediately, every day, and tell you everything they tell me.”

He mumbled something and walked Winters to the front door. Winters looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. He stared at Tom for a long moment before stepping out.

Shutting the front door felt like he was closing a tomb.

His shutters were all closed, blinds drawn, curtains pulled shut. Dust had settled over his bookcases and end tables, his granite countertops and glass light shades. He hadn’t been in his house for months. When was the last time he’d slept here? Oh, right. The night of the shooting, when he’d watched the news for hours and frantically clung to his phone, praying that Mike would be safe.

Upstairs, his bed was unmade, blankets tossed akimbo, as if someone had gotten up in a hurry. Mike’s clothes—tactical gear—were on the floor. What he’d worn the night of the search for Desheriyev. Tom plucked out Mike’s old t-shirt and held it to his nose. God, Mike…

Gently, he folded himself into the space Mike had left, the empty tangle of sheets and an indent on the pillow. Etta Mae whined to jump up next to him, but she settled for resting her chin on the edge of the bed, right next to his face.

He could practically feel Mike’s arms around him, feel Mike holding him close, cradling him in the safety of his arms. Gasping, Tom buried his face in Mike’s t-shirt, breathing in Mike’s stale scent after a night of searching for Desheriyev, adrenaline and action. It was all Mike, and, to Tom, it was heavenly. It was home.

Mike had promised to keep him safe through the trial. Had promised, over and over again, and Tom had always believed him. He knew Mike would go to the ends of the earth, do anything to keep him safe, and he’d never felt more protected. Never felt more cherished, or loved, than when Mike took his hand in that reassuring way, or sat beside him, silent and sentinel and supporting.

But keeping Tom safe wasn’t supposed to come at the expense of Mike. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all.

The tears came swiftly, searing rivers that melted from his eyes. He wailed into Mike’s shirt, trying to huff his scent, as Etta Mae licked every one of his tears from his cheeks.

The trial did not resume on Monday, and a nervous public watched and waited. Speculation about the events in West Virginia and the death of an FBI agent and the wounding of a federal judge sent the media into a frenzy.

True to his word, Winters called Tom every day with an update from the hospital. Mike went from critical to serious, and his vitals were slowly improving. He’d had multiple surgeries patching up internal hemorrhages from the envenomation of the multiple snake bites, as well as Barnes’s stab wounds. He was still in a coma, though, and his blood pressure was still too low.

On Wednesday, Winters and Ballard came back to his house.

“We need to talk to you about Pasha Baryshnikov.”

Ballard and Winters sat outside with Tom on his deck, watching as Etta Mae strolled in the yard. His rose bushes were dead and the flower beds overgrown, but he’d hired a gardener to tame the savannah that had sprouted in his absence.

Tom squinted at Ballard. “What do you want to know?”