Page 92 of The Hitman’s Final Job

He shakes Vaughn’s proffered hand and leaves, and it’s just the two of us again.

I take a step toward Vaughn.

“I don’t know how to process any of this.” His voice is quiet. “I don’t know how to—I need to see my son.”

“I know,” I say.

He studies me for one more moment, then another person in scrubs approaches us, and Vaughn follows him out.

I sit down on one of the plastic chairs.

Rowan is going to be okay.

I let that land properly for the first time since the sound that wasn’t a firework.

Rowan is going to be okay.

My best friend, who decided we were going to be friends before I’d agreed to it, who showed up consistently for thirteen years without an agenda, who is the only person I’ve ever trusted completely, is going to be okay.

I rub my eyes and let the tears of relief fall down my cheeks.

Then I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt and take out my phone, but I can’t talk to anyone just yet.

Silas:

Rowan is out of surgery. Stable. Full recovery expected.

The three dots immediately dance.

Zuza:

That’s excellent news. Did you tell Vaughn?

Silas:

He didn’t take it well. I don’t know where I stand with him right now.

Zuza:

Give him time. That’s a significant amount of information for one evening, considering his son almost died.

Silas:

I know. I’m going to find the sheriff now.

Zuza:

Keep me posted.

I pocket the phone as a man wearing a hat and a badge comes in. He appears to be in his sixties, with broad shoulders and a friendly face. He scans the empty room until his eyes land on me.

“You must be Silas,” he says. “Vaughn’s friend.”

“I am.”

He crosses the room and extends his hand. “Sheriff Dale Briggs.”

“Briggs?”