Fuzzy Navel

4:57 P.M.
JACK

I’M MEDICATED. Something strong that makes it hard to stay awake.

People come and go all day. Doctors and nurses. Cops. People I care about.

I have nothing to offer them. Nothing to give.

My hospital room fills up with meaningless flowers. Friends. Police officers from around the country. Strangers who watched the news.

Captain Bains even shows up, offers his condolences. Tells me to take as long as I need to recuperate.

He even offers to help with the funeral arrangements.

I decline.

“We’ll get her,” he tells me. “We’ve got the Staties involved. The Feds. Every cop shop in Illinois and the surrounding states.”

His words don’t reassure me. I know they won’t get her. I know, because Alex has already gotten away.

She’s told me as much.

Before Bains arrived, one of my floral arrangements began to ring. Inside the planter was a cell phone.

I picked it up, and read the text message on the screen.

SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS, JACK.

I’M IN MILWAUKEE.

COME GET ME.

Along with the text was a picture. A shot of Alex, a half smile on her scarred face, standing in front of a restaurant.

I don’t share this information with the captain. Maybe I will later. I’m not sure. It depends on whether or not I’m going to stay a cop.

I look at it now. The phone. My direct link to the person who hurt me worse than anyone has ever hurt me before.

COME GET ME.

“You can bet on it, Alex. You can bet on it.”