Page 110 of Caterina
She checks the dressing with careful hands, professional enough not to cause pain on purpose, cousin enough that if she did cause pain, she would pretend not to feel bad about it.
“It bled through a little,” she says.
“I know.”
“Of course you know.” She smooths the tape back down. “Any dizziness? Fever? Chills? Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Lying?”
“No.”
She studies my face for a beat longer.
Teresa has always had the unnerving ability to look at a person and make them feel like she is reading between the lines. All the things they didn't say. It was annoying when she was fourteen and already smarter than half the adults in the room. It is more annoying now.
“What?” I ask.
Her gaze narrows.
I don’t like that look.
“That is not just pain,” she says.
“Teresa.”
“No.” Her head tilts slightly. “That’s interesting.”
“Nothing is interesting before coffee.”
“You have coffee.”
“I haven’t had it yet.”
She looks toward the mug, then back at me, and something in her expression shifts from medical concern to personal suspicion.
I do not like that either.
“Did something happen?”
“What could possibly have happened?”
The answer is too casual.
I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
Teresa’s brows lift.
Damn it.
I reach for the coffee to give my hand something to do. The movement pulls at my side, and pain flares bright enough that I have to pause before I get the mug all the way up. Teresa watches, expression dry.
“Very subtle,” she says.
“I was shot.”
“Convenient excuse.”
