Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
I snort, biting back a grin. “Just lucky I guess.”
I’m gradually falling back into rhythm, and I’m grateful for the dull thrum of normalcy following the accident. I look over to see Banks and Sullivan returning from their coffee expedition, steaming cups firmly in hand. The duo looks almost conspiratorial, like they’ve just come back from plotting something nefarious or discussing the secrets of the universe over lattes.
I watch them saunter in with an ease that speaks volumes of an unspoken understanding. Sullivan gives me a small salute with his coffee cup, and Banks offers his disarming smile, and I realize I’m becoming addicted to it.
“Hope you didn’t miss us too much,” Sullivan quips, handing a cup to Romi before crossing back to his chair. Romi opts for a half-squint at her husband, playfully suspicious.
“Only a little,” I reply, technically lying but unwilling to analyze this sudden desire to have Banks at my side twenty-four-seven.
Banks settles himself down in the chair beside my bed, displaying a kind of stubborn grace. There's this steely refusal to leave my side, which throws me for a loop. The gesture is equal parts confusing and comforting. I’d imagine most adrenaline-fueled heroes bolt after their rescue shifts end, but not Banks. He seems steadfastly rooted at my side.
Romi and Sullivan eventually stand to leave, pledging their return after a necessary son-related pit stop. “Gotta feed the munchkin,” Romi says, kissing my cheek before she motions toward Banks. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll take care of whatever she needs,” Banks reassures my sister.
With a wave and another hard glance at Banks, my sister and brother-in-law make their way out.
Silence fills the room, cozy and comfortable. Banks sips his coffee, looking over at me thoughtfully. It's nice, somehow, having him here. There's a soothing solidness to his presence. “You really don’t have to babysit me,” I remark, unable to completely hide the quizzical note in my voice.
“I know,” he says, simple as that, and it’s weirdly comforting knowing he's staying by choice. “I want to be here with you, knockout. Nothing could get me to leave.”
I don’t really have a response to his declaration, so I keep quiet and enjoy my hot latte.
The hours slip by in a mostly pleasurable haze broken by routine prods from nurses and episodes of a television drama playing softly in the background.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep with Banks still sitting in the chair next to my bed.
When Romi returns the next morning, she’s armed with large take-out cups of coffee.
“You two looked like you could use a pick-me-up,” she declares, handing a cup to Banks with an all-too-innocent smile before holding one out to me.
“Thank you.” I grab the cup and take a big sip. “Hospital coffee leaves a lot to be desired.”
I’m just about to make a half-hearted complaint about the lack of decent TV channels when there’s a firm knock on the door. Banks glances over at me and makes sure I’m covered before calling out, “Come in.”
The door opens to reveal a deputy in uniform, who looks like he’s been up far too long wrestling with paperwork and caffeine. He gives a polite nod at me and then focuses on Banks, summoning him to the hallway with an urgent, “Can I have a word with you?”
As Banks gets up, curiosity bubbles up, mingled with a touch of anxiety. I strain to catch snippets of their conversation, half-heard through the doorframe. Their voices rise and fall, not quite an argument but steeped in enough intensity to suggest tension. I catch Banks’s steadfast, insistent voice, and my pulse quickens.
He comes back, the deputy trailing behind with a clipboard in hand, which can only mean one thing; it’s time to deal with the legalities of the accident.
“Yvette,” Banks begins, re-settling into the chair next to me, his expression mingling gentle concern with grim resolution, “you’re going to need to give a statement. They can’t hold Richard Hecken without it.”
My stomach twists at the name, memories I’d prefer stayed buried bubbling unbidden to the surface. Richard Hecken. The last person I expected to cross paths with in Silver Spoon Falls. Suddenly, those days at my old firm in Houston, with Richard’s relentless presence making work life unbearable, are fresh and raw again in my mind.
Still, I nod, knowing it’s the right thing to do. Necessary, even, not just for justice, but for closure and for putting the past behind me once and for all. Banks watches me with a kind of steady reassurance, affirming silently I’m not facing this alone.
The deputy positions himself, pen poised above a sheet of paper attached to his clipboard, his demeanor shifting from official to respectfully attentive as he asks, “You made a statement in the ambulance accusing Richard Hecken of purposely running you off the road.” I nod my head and he adds, “Can you please explain the situation to me?”