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Heather’s baby sister was there in a wheelchair. Looking pale, terrified, and far thinner than she had even a few weeks ago. “Hope. Hey, little gremlin, how are you feeling?”

“I have had better days, Erickson. Far better days. Not very gremlin-y at all.” She looked up at the man pushing her chair. “Thanks for the ride, Miggy. You came in surprisingly handy yet again.”

“I was coming here anyway. To talk to Daniel and Gun. First sign you are getting tired, brat, and I’m taking you home, though.”

“I’m good. I want to be here with my sister.” She looked back at Powell. “You said he spit on my sister?”

“Yes.”

She looked at Gunnar. “Did they keep Heather’s clothes in the emergency department?”

“I’m sure they did.” Gunnar hadn’t been down there when Heather had come in. He’d just heard what had happened from Daniel later. “They would have been kept as evidence.”

“Who processed my sister?” Hope stood and moved to Heather’s bed. He watched as she covered her sister’s hand. “She…looks horrible. Oh, Heath…”

Heather’s face was battered. There were stitches on the left side of her lip. One arm was in a removable cast and a sling. Her shoulder had been dislocated. Her fingers on both hands were badly bruised. Some of her ribs were cracked. She had a concussion. There were…other…bruises everyone spoke about only in hushed tones. “She does. But we have her back safe now.”