Avery felt like she had been in some strange isolation chamber for the last two weeks. She had stepped into it of her own accord because, quite frankly, there was no place else that appealed to her-only the sterile walls of the hospital room in which Ramirez still barely clung to the edge of life.
From time to time, her phone would buzz as a call or text came through-but she rarely checked them. Her solitude was only ever broken by nurses, doctors, and Rose. Avery knew that she was probably scaring her daughter. Truth be told, she was starting to scare herself, too. She'd been depressed before-during her teenage years and after her divorce-but this was something new. This went beyond depression and into a realm of wondering if the life she was living was really even hers anymore.
Two weeks ago-thirteen days, to be exact-was when it had happened. It was when Ramirez had taken a turn for the worst after a surgery to repair damage done from a bullet wound that had come less than half an inch from piercing his heart. That turn for the worst had never corrected its course. The doctors said he'd gone into heart failure. He was touch and go; he could come to and fully recuperate at any time or he could slip away just as easily. There was just no way to tell for sure. He'd lost a lot of blood in the shooting-he'd technically died for forty-two seconds following the heart failure-and things just weren't looking good.
All of that had been compacted by the other terrible news she'd received just twenty minutes after speaking to the doctor.
News that Howard Randall had somehow escaped from prison. And now, two weeks later, he had still not been caught. And if she needed a reminder of that terrible fact (which she really didn't), she could see it on the television whenever she deigned to turn it on. She'd sit there like a zombie in Ramirez's room, watching the news. Even when Howard's escape wasn't the headline story, it was still there in the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen.
Howard Randall still MIA. Authorities have no answers.
The entire town of Boston was nervous. It was like being on the verge of war with some other nameless country and just waiting for the bombs to start dropping. Finley had tried calling her several times and O'Malley had even poked his head into the room on two occasions. Even Connelly seemed to be concerned about her well-being, expressing it in a simple text that she still looked at in a muted sort of appreciation.
Take your time. Call if you need anything.
They were leaving her to grieve. She knew that and it felt a little silly, seeing as how Ramirez wasn't dead yet. But it was also to allow her to process the trauma of what had happened to her on the last case. She still felt cold thinking about it, recalling the feeling of nearly freezing to death on two separate occasions-inside of an industrial freezer and by falling into frigid waters.
But under all of it was the fact that Howard Randall was on the loose. He had escaped somehow, furthering his already enigmatic image. She'd seen on the news where less than reputable folks on social media were praising Howard for his Houdini-like skills in escaping from prison and leaving no trace behind.
Avery thought about all of this while sitting in one of the recliners that a kind nurse had moved in for her last week, realizing that she was not going anywhere anytime soon. Her thoughts were interrupted by a ding from her phone. It was the only sound she was allowing these days, a sign that Rose was reaching out.
Avery checked her phone and saw that her daughter had left a text message. Just me checking on you, it read. You still planted in the hospital? Stop it. Come out and have a drink with your daughter.
Out of duty more than anything else, Avery responded back. You aren't 21.
The reply came right away, reading: Oh mom, that's cute. There's a lot you don't know about me. And you could learn some of these secrets if you'd come out with me. Just one night. He'll be okay without you there…
Avery set her phone aside. She knew Rose was right, although she could not help but be haunted by the possibility that Ramirez might decide to finally come to while she was away. And no one would be there to welcome him, to take his hand and let him know what had happened.
She got out of the recliner and walked over to him. She had gotten over the fact that he looked weak, hooked to machines and with a thin tube snaking down his throat. When she remembered why he was here-that he had taken a shot that could easily have been intended for her-then he looked stronger than ever. She ran her hands through his hair and kissed his forehead.
She then took his hand in hers and sat on the edge of the bed. While she would never tell anyone, she had spoken to him several times, hoping he could hear her. She did it now, feeling a little dumb about it at first, like usual, but falling into the habit naturally.
"So here's the thing," she told him. "I haven't left the hospital in nearly three days. I need a shower. I'd like a decent meal and a proper cup of coffee. I'm going to step out for a bit, okay?"
She squeezed his hand, her heart breaking a little when she realized that she was naively waiting for him to squeeze back. She gave him a pleading look, sighed, and then picked up her phone. Before she stepped out of the room, she glanced up at the TV. She grabbed the remote to turn it off and was greeted with a face that she had tried so hard to put out of her mind for the last two weeks.
Howard Randall stared down at her, his mug shot featured on half of the screen while a serious-looking news anchor read something from a teleprompter. Avery clicked the television off in disgust and made her way out of the room quickly, as if Howard's image on the screen had been a ghost, now reaching for her.
***
Knowing that Ramirez had been set to move in with her (and, according to the ring that had been discovered in his pocket after he'd been shot, ask her to marry him) made returning to her apartment a morose experience. When she walked into the place, she looked around absently. The place felt dead. It felt like no one had lived there in ages, a place that was waiting to be stripped, repainted, and rented out to someone else.
She thought about calling Rose. They could hang out and have a pizza. But she knew Rose would want to talk about what was going on and Avery was not ready for that yet. She usually processed things pretty quickly, but this was different. Ramirez being in such jeopardy and Howard Randall escaping…it was all too much.
Still…while the place really no longer felt like home, she yearned to stretch out on that sofa. And her bed was calling her name.
Of course this is still home, she thought. Just because Ramirez may not make it and end up here with you, it's still your home. Don't be so damned dramatic.
And there it was, as plain as day. She'd so far managed to guard her thoughts against that reality but now that it had been dumped into thought form, it was a bit more staggering than she'd assumed.
With slumped shoulders, she made her way into the bathroom. She stripped down, stepped in the tub and drew the curtain, and turned the water to hot. She stood there for several minutes before bothering with soap or shampoo, letting the water loosen her muscles. When she was done cleaning herself, she killed the shower, pushed the stopper down, and ran hot water into the tub. She sat down as it filled, allowing herself to relax.
When the water was at the brim, nearly slopping over the side of the tub, she turned the water off with her toe. She closed her eyes and soaked.
The only sound in the apartment was the slow and rhythmic drip drip of excess water from the faucet into the water, and her own breathing.
And shortly after, a third sound: Avery's weeping.
She had kept it in check for the most part, not wanting to show that side of herself in the hospital and not wanting Ramirez to hear it, if he could hear her at all. She'd slipped into the bathroom of his room a few times and cried for a bit but she had never let it come out so freely.
She wept in the tub and, like the thought of Ramirez possibly not making it finally blooming in her head, the crying was also a bit more staggering than she had anticipated.
She let it all out and didn't get out of the tub until the water went tepid and her feet and hands had started to wrinkle. When she finally climbed out, smelling like a normal human again and having soaked in some steam, she felt much better.
After she got dressed, she even took the time to put on a little bit of makeup and made her hair look at least somewhat presentable. She then ventured out into the kitchen, poured herself a bowl of cereal as a form of a late lunch, and checked her phone, which she had left on the kitchen counter.
Apparently, she'd been quite popular while she'd been in the bathroom.
She had three voice mails and eight text messages. All of them were from numbers she knew. Two were landlines at the precinct. The others were from Finley and O'Malley. One of the texts was from Connelly. It was the last one that had come in-seven minutes ago-and he was not vague about his purpose. The text read: Avery, you'd best answer your fucking phone if you value your job!
She knew it was a bluff, but the fact that Connelly of all people had texted her meant that something was up. Connelly rarely texted. Something big had to be going down.
She didn't bother checking the voice messages. Instead, she called O'Malley. She didn't want to speak to Finley because he pussyfooted around awkward things. And there was no way in hell she wanted to speak to Connelly when he was in a miserable mood.
O'Malley answered on the second ring. "Avery. Jesus…where the hell have you been?"
"In the bathtub."
"Are you at your apartment?"
"I am. Is that some sort of a problem? I saw that Connelly texted. He texted. What's wrong down there?"
"Look…we might have something pretty huge down here and if you're up for it, we'd like for you to come in. Actually…even if you're not up for it, Connelly wants you here."
"Why?" she asked, intrigued. "What is it?"
"Just…just get down here, will you?"
She sighed, realizing that the thought of returning to work actually appealed to her. Maybe it would give her some energy. Maybe it would get her out of this pitiful funk she'd been in for the last two weeks.
"What's so damned important?" she asked.
"We've got a murder," O'Malley said. "And we're pretty sure it was Howard Randall."
