Page 20 of My Enemy Biker

He's standing in my kitchen staring at nothing, and I realize he doesn't know what to do now that he's here.

Doesn't know why he came, maybe. Just knew he needed to.

I walk to the sink. Turn the water on warm. Look at him.

"Come here."

He comes.

I take his right hand first, guide it under the stream. Water hits his knuckles and runs red immediately, swirling pink down the white porcelain.

I pump soap into my palm, work it between his fingers. The split skin on two knuckles opens slightly under the pressure but he doesn't flinch.

His left hand is less damaged. Just blood, no breaks in the skin. I wash it the same way, methodical, the way I'd handle evidence. Document, preserve, understand.

Except I'm not trying to understand what happened. I already know what happened. He went to get Walt back and someone bled because of it.

The silence stretches but it doesn't feel awkward. I'm focused on the task, cleaning each finger individually, checking under his nails. He stands perfectly still. Lets me.

When I reach for the towel his hand catches my wrist. Gentle but deliberate.

"There's more on my arm," he says.

I push his sleeve up. The blood on his forearm is thicker, more of it, with clear finger drag marks through it. I wash gently around the pattern, watching it dissolve and disappear. Evidence becoming nothing.

"What happened?" I don't look at his face. Keep my eyes on the task.

"We found Walt. Property outside Millbrook, basement. He was alive."

Past tense. Was alive. Meaning he's not in the basement anymore, meaning they got him out. I wait for the rest.

"Three Marrow members on site. Two surrendered." He pauses and I can feel him choosing his words. "Sully was there. The one from the parking lot."

My hands still in the water.

"He went for a weapon," Cain continues. "Tate shot him. Shoulder, non-fatal. Then I asked him questions."

The blood on his hands. His arm. The hollow look in his eyes.

I turn off the water. Dry his hands and forearm with the towel, checking the knuckles one more time. They'll bruise badly but nothing needs stitches.

When I look up he's watching my face.

"You pressed on the wound." Not a question.

"Yes."

"Until he answered."

"Yes."

I should feel something about that. Horror, maybe. Disgust. Some kind of moral recoil. The paralegal part of my brain that understands assault charges and prosecutable torture.

Instead what I feel is tired.

Bone-deep tired of being afraid, of measuring everything against what the Devils did, of trying to stay separate from something I'm already part of.

"Is Walt okay?" I ask.