When coated in blue, I make no apologies for anything.
I look toward the doorway of the hospital room, catching sight of two men in blue uniforms with their shiny gold badges and tiny little pins bearing their names, the NYPD patches sewn on their scrawny arms. Dead center of the duo is a man wearing a drab gray suit, his voice the one chipping away at me like he's an ice pick and I'm a fucking glacier.
Detective Jameson.
The first time I met the man was in a room just like this, waking up with a broken chest and half a life left to piece together. He drilled me that day, drilled me for answers as to what happened, and I was honest.
I was too broken to keep it bottled in.
I told him Johnny Rita murdered my wife.
He told me he'd get justice.
He never did.
The man lied to me.
I can respect a murderer, and a thief, but I have no respect for someone who lies straight to my face. Say what you mean and mean what you say or don't say anything at all.
Life is too short to have the bullshit sugarcoated.
Detective Jameson strolls into the room, smiling a fake wide smile, his younger partner on his heels. I don't have much experience with Detective Andrews, personally, but he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't force a smile or pretend to be somebody he's not. He's a real prick, and that almost makes me like him.
Almost.
"Mr. Vitale," Detective Jameson says, strolling toward the bed. "Sorry to hear what happened to you."
"I'm sure you are."
"I am. I'm happy to see you're moving around, though. Are you…?" He pauses, theatrically glancing around. "You aren't going somewhere already, are you?"
I don't humor that with a response, straining myself as I settle back into the bed. I can't get up now, not with all of them here. I'll probably fall flat on my face, and I won't give them that satisfaction.
Not to mention I'm wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, and there's no sign of my clothes anywhere.
"Where would I go?" I ask.
"Good question," Jameson says, taking a seat in the black chair, not waiting for an invitation to hang around, while his partner leans against the wall nearby. The uniformed officers linger out in the hallway, not coming any closer. They're just here for back up.
For what? I don't know.
Not like I'd hurt any of them in the middle of a hospital in broad daylight.
No, I'd slip into their houses after nightfall instead.
"We just want to ask you a few questions in regards to the incident that happened last night," the detective continues, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, along with a pen. He flips it open to the first blank page, not looking at me as he asks, "Can you tell me who shot you?"
My response is immediate. "Yes."
Silence swallows the room for a few seconds before the man meets my eyes, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are you going to tell me?"
"No."
His brow furrows. "No?"
"You asked if I could, not if I would," I clarify. "I have no intention of telling you anything."
Andrews chimes in, clearing his throat. "If you're afraid of retaliation—"
A sharp bark of laughter rocks my chest. I grimace, tears stinging my eyes, pain running through my body from the jolt like a bolt of electric striking my veins. I look away from the men, clenching my jaw and closing my eyes to push back the sensation.
When I reopen my eyes, my gaze hits the doorway and I stall, frozen at the unexpected sight. Karissa stands there, leaning quietly against the doorframe, wearing a too-big black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking like she just crawled out of bed. Her hair is piled wildly on top of her head, knotted and twisted, pieces falling down around her weary face. There are lines on her cheeks, a redness streaking the skin that only comes from an assault of recent tears.
She looks broken, but so goddamn beautiful.
I want to put her back together.
I want to break her down even more.
Her eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens at the distress I find lurking in the depths. There's sadness, yes, but even more I see the fear.
Is she still afraid of me?
Why is she even here?
Sighing, I drag my eyes from hers and look at the detectives again. I'm too exhausted and humiliated and in too much pain to keep up this charade. Jameson is speaking again, going on and on about the same nonsense, about keeping the streets safe, knowing good and damn well I'm one of the worst offenders in this godforsaken city. We both know it, but he can't prove it, so his half-hearted lecture falls on deaf ears, little more than the narcissistic wank of an ignorant man who craves power but can't even take down one measly murderous scumbag.
It burns him.
I'd like to set his house on fire and burn him for real some days.
"You want to know who shot me?" I ask, cutting him off. They both look at me, wide-eyed and hopeful, as Jameson clutches his notebook tightly. "Here, let me spell it for you, to make it easier. I want to make sure it doesn't get lost in translation."
Jameson waves his pen toward me. "I'm ready."
"It's, uh… F-U-C-K. Last name Y-O-U. You got that? Or do you need me to spell it again?"
Before the last word even leaves my lips, Jameson closes his notebook and stands up, shoving it back into his pocket. He knows it's pointless. He's getting not a damn thing from me. He motions toward the door, and Andrews heads that way as Jameson lingers, eyeing me peculiarly like he has something more to say.
Whatever it is, it's a waste of breath, breath he ought to save, because who knows when he might run out of those. He seems to think better of it after a moment and shakes his head, turning away.
Karissa's head is down, her eyes on the floor as she presses her back against the wall right inside the room, moving out of their way. Andrews walks right by her with little more than a scowl on his face, but Jameson pauses and smiles warmly. "Nice to see you again, Miss Reed."
"You, too."
Her voice is low, barely a whispers that cracks around those meager words. Jameson leaves, the uniformed officers trailing behind him, leaving the two of us alone.
I can't believe she's actually here.
It's dead silent, except for the noises out in the hallway. Karissa stands there for a moment before her eyes shift that way, like she's thinking of jetting out the door already. My stomach coils at the thought of her leaving, but I force the feeling back as I clear my throat, knowing she won't be the one to break this silence.
"You're here."
She doesn't respond right away, her eyes drifting along the scuffed linoleum floor again, before her gaze finally shifts my way. "Why wouldn't I be?"