The EMTs were already pushing Fish Man out, their movements precise but quick—he must not have had much blood left—and a second team surrounded Dad and me. I realized when one of them started to poke around Danger and Will Robinson, I had a long gash in my chest from when I had ducked with a knife protruding from me. Next time, I would dislodge the knife before ducking.

“That’s going to need stitches,” said the EMT.

Fortunately, Cookie charged through the police barrier about that time and drove me to the hospital. What did Dad mean, he knew I would be okay? His frightened expression as I was being attacked would never have led me to believe such a thing. But it was the way he said it, like he’d been calculating the odds long before the actual event. And the look on his face. He’d never looked at me that way before. It was disturbingly similar to the way my stepmother looked at me every time we saw each other.

Still, that wasn’t the only thing niggling at me. For the first time in my life, Reyes didn’t show up to save it. Which meant he was either really pissed or dead.

* * *

After a long wait, I sat in the ER with superglue holding me together, though the attending actually called it SurgiSeal. The cuts seemed to already be fusing, surprising more than one doctor and several nurses to boot. Thus, no stitches. Just superglue.

“I smell supergluey,” I said to Cook as she waited beside me. The freaking paperwork took way longer than the two minutes it took for them to glue me back together.

“I just can’t believe this,” she said, upset that Dad hadn’t told me about the parolee threatening his life. “If nothing else, he should have warned you for your own protection, instead of trying to keep you blissfully unaware that a madman was out to kill him and his entire family.”

Uncle Bob walked over to us. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, don’t even,” Cookie said, her mouth a thin line of disappointment. “You are just as much a part of this as that man.” She pointed to Dad, who lay asleep on the other side of the emergency room, his head bandaged. He had to stay the night for observation. Probably a good thing. Cookie was on a rampage.

My stepmother looked up when Cookie started in on Uncle Bob. Really. The man didn’t stand a chance.

“You of all people should have warned her.” Cookie poked him in the chest to emphasize her point, and I just knew Ubie would come unglued. I glanced around for the tube of superglue just in case.

Instead, he bowed his head in regret. “We just didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” she said and took off in search of coffee.

“Dude, could you hold it down?” the man on the bed next to me asked. “I got me a nine in my head and it’s pounding like a son of a bitch.”

I didn’t doubt it. I’d never had a nine-millimeter in my noggin, but it probably hurt. I looked back at Uncle Bob. “Is that why you had Garrett following me?”

He pursed his mouth. “That was the number one reason.”

“And the other was just in case Reyes Farrow happened to show up.”

“That would be number two.”

I stood, disgusted with men at the moment. “So, you could tell Swopes but not me?”

“Charley, we didn’t know if this guy would ever show or if he was just full of shit. He blamed your dad for the death of his daughter. She died when Caruso crashed his car during a police chase. Your dad was the one doing the chasing. When he got out of prison, he started calling your dad, telling him he was going to kill his entire family, so we put tails on all of you. Your dad didn’t want you to worry.”

He may as well have ended that statement with your pretty little head. That was the most chauvinistic thing I’d ever heard come out of Ubie’s mouth.

I stood toe to toe with him, furious that every man I was even remotely close to had been lying to me for the past two weeks. I tiptoed and whispered, “Then f**k you all.”

Paperwork or no paperwork, I left to look for Cookie, also known as my ride home. As I walked past the elevators, the doors opened, and there stood my sister. She sighed and stepped out. “So, are you going to live?” she asked.

“As always.”

“How’s Dad?”

“The doctor said he’ll be fine. He has a concussion and a few bruised ribs, but nothing’s broken. He’s going to be out for a good while.”

“Fine. I’ll come back in the morning.” She turned and strode down the hall slightly ahead of me, as if she didn’t want to be seen with me in public. In that case, I’d give her good reason.

With a gasp, I grabbed my chest, collapsed against the wall, started hyperventilating. Trying to fake hyperventilation without actually hyperventilating was not as easy as one might think.

Gemma turned back and glared. “What are you doing?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“It’s all coming back to me,” I said, throwing a hand over my head in agony. “When I was in the hospital getting my tonsils out, I tried to escape. The fluid leaking from my severed IV led them right to me and I was recaptured.”

Worried someone might be watching, she did a quick perimeter check before refocusing on me. “You’ve never had your tonsils out. You’ve never even been in a hospital overnight.”

“Oh.” I straightened. That was embarrassing. “Wait! Yes, I have, when Aunt Selena died. I stayed with her, held her hand all night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Selena is a missionary in Guatemala.”