Page 121 of Once Upon a Lie

Shane

Sunday, November 7

3:00 a.m.

Sharp light breaks into the haziness of sleep, and I blink slowly, trying to get my eyes to work. My lips are dry, and my brain feels mushy, but somewhere in the distance I feel an urgency to figure something out.

I fight the overwhelming pull of sleep, licking my lips and coughing when there’s a pinch of soreness in my throat. My words are dry and incomplete as I call out, “Wha . . . Wher . . . Hello?”

“Hi, Shane,” a life-roughened voice says from somewhere above me, prompting me to try opening my eyes again. It’s the damnedest thing, how sticky they feel.

“’Lo?”

“I’m Martin Billings, the director of national intelligence.”

“Holy shiii—” I whisper, the huge significance of such a big title scrambling my brain. “Sounds impor-tant.”

“It is, Shane. It is. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

Finally, the question of my own I’ve been rolling around in my mind trying to find comes to me. “Valenti . . . ? Is she okay?”

“Let’s focus on . . .” As he talks, his words fade, and the sleepiness pulls harder and harder until I hear nothing at all.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?” I ask, the sound of my name startling me awake again.

“It’s Mike. I need to ask you a couple questions, starting with what the hell you thought you were doing showing up somewhere I explicitly told you not to.”

I blink, a slow smile curling my lips as sleep pulls me back. “Whoos-p-sie . . .” I laugh. “Night night.”

I awaken to the nightmare of Valentina’s frightened face and the gunman behind her. “Teeny!” I scream, the sound grating through the room like shattered glass.

Someone puts a hand to my shoulder and holds me back. “It’s okay, sir. You’re okay.”

A pretty nurse with a gentle smile and bright-purple scrubs works beside me, hanging a new IV bag. I close my eyes tight, willing myself to focus.

Forcing words through my dry throat, I plead. “Please. A woman. Valentina Cordone. Can you find out if she’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” a disembodied voice calls from the other side of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut and blink, wincing when the pain in my side roars.

“Fuuuck.”

“Ahhh, good. You’re feeling pain. Maybe that means you’re getting awake enough to answer some questions.”

“Who the hell are you?” I ask, trying to look to my left and stopping when I feel a staple pull.

“Lee Johnson, director of the FBI.”

“Great,” I reply with a groan, and he laughs.

“Yeah, I had a feeling waking up to all us ugly fuckers was sending you right back into a deep sleep. Asked that pretty nurse to come do us a favor by backing off your sedation and then being the first thing you saw.”

“What exactly do you want to know?” I ask around dry lips. “Because if it’s if I was shot, I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.”

“Cute.”

“No, sir. Painful. Very, very painful.”