Chapter 11 · Scrub Room Trap

The tap was still running when I ran out of things to say.

Steam climbed every inch of the scrub room. Six feet by eight, my own design, hot and tight as held breath. Julian Sterling stood dead in the center of it with his shirt hanging open and dried blood crusted down his ribs.

"You're burning my hot water," I said.

"Then tell me what I'm standing here for."

"You're standing here because I haven't decided what to do with you."

Something shifted behind his eyes. Not a smile. Worse.

"Six years," he said, voice rough. "Six years hunting a ghost. You were three hundred miles off my border, keeping my kids locked in a steel box."

"Glass." I hit the tap off with my elbow. "Not a box. Glass and steel and a lock you can't pick. And don't you dare call them yours in my house."

Behind me, through the reinforced glass, the triage bay glowed pale blue. I didn't even have to turn around to see them. My son flat on the gurney, the oxygen mask fogging with every shallow, ragged breath.