Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Chapter 5

WHAT DID YOU dream of when you were little? Did you plan on growing up to be an astronaut or a ballerina or maybe even a superhero with a red cape and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Maybe you were going to be a lawyer like your mother or a fireman like your father. Or perhaps you couldn’t identify with your family at all. You mostly dreamed about getting the hell out and never looking back.

But you dreamed.

Everyone dreams. Little boys, little girls, ghetto-born, white-picket raised. Everyone aspires to be someone, do something.

I should have dreams, I think, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they are.

The doctor is in the room. She stands near the door, talking to the man who claims to be my husband. Their heads are together and they speak in hushed tones, like lovers, I think, but don’t know why.

“Before the accident, was she sleeping any better?” the doctor asks.

“No, few hours a night at best.”

“How about her headaches?”

“Still bad. She doesn’t say anything anymore. I just find her lying on the sofa, an ice pack across her forehead.”

“Mood?”

The man gives a short bark of laughter. “On a good day, merely depressed. On a bad day, fit to kill.”

The doctor nods. Her name tag reads DR. SARE CELIK. She is beautiful, with dark coloring and exotic features. I wonder once again about her relationship with my husband. “Emotional lability is a common side effect of post-concussive syndrome,” she is explaining. “Often for loved ones, it’s the most difficult. How about her memory? Short-term recollections better?”

“When she first regained consciousness, she claimed not to recognize me at all.”

Dr. Celik arches a brow, finally appearing surprised. She flips through a chart in her hand. “Needless to say, I ordered a head CT, not to mention an emergency MRI upon admittance. Both came back clear, but given her past history of TBIs, I’ll order follow-ups in the next twenty-four hours. How did she handle the situation? Agitation? Rage? Tears?”

“Nothing. It was like . . . She claimed to not know I was her husband, yet the news didn’t surprise her.”

“She’d been drinking before the accident.”

My husband flushes guiltily, as if somehow this is his fault. “I thought I got all the bottles out of the house,” he mutters.

“Please remember what I told you before: Alcohol directly impedes the brain’s ability to heal. Meaning for someone with her condition, any alcoholic drink at all is counterproductive to her recovery.”

“I know.”

“Is this the first incident?”

He hesitates and even I know that means it isn’t.

Dr. Celik regards him sternly. “There is a strong corollary between brain injuries and alcohol misuse, particularly in patients with a history of alcohol dependency. And given not one, but three concussions in a matter of months, your wife is vulnerable. Even a single glass of wine will affect her more strongly in the short term, while putting her at long-term risk for substance abuse.”

“I know.”

“This latest accident will most certainly set her back. It’s not uncommon to see an almost exponential effect from multiple TBIs in a short time frame. I’m not surprised her amnesia has returned. Most likely, she’ll also experience intense headaches, difficulty focusing, severe exhaustion. She may also report sensitivity to light or some other heightened sensation—smell, sound, sight. Conversely, she might describe feeling as if she’s ‘under water’—can’t quite make the world come into focus. Of course, such episodes may spike her anxiety and lead to increased mood swings.”

“Great.” The man’s voice is grim.

“I would keep the household quiet. Establish a daily routine, stick to it.”

“Sure. Just because she doesn’t remember me is no reason for her not to do as I say.”

The doctor continues as if he hasn’t spoken: “You should expect her to tire easily. I would limit screen time—no video games, iPad usage, even TV shows and movies. Let her brain rest. Oh, and no driving.”

“So . . . quiet home life, in bed by ten.”

The doctor gives him a stern frown. In response, the man/my husband runs his hand through his rumpled hair.

I feel a whisper of memory. Standing in another room at another time.

Please, Nicky, let’s not fight. Not again.

I realize I must have loved this man once. It’s the only way to explain how much his presence hurts me now.

Dr. Celik is still talking about my ongoing needs, follow-up care. She’s obviously familiar with my case. Multiple TBIs, she’d said. I feel like I should know what that means, but the letters won’t stay still in my head. They flip upside down, backward, a dizzying display of alphabet acrobatics. I give up. My head hurts, the familiar sensation of a migraine building behind my temples.

I think of Vero, learning to fly.

I did have a dream. I can almost remember it, like a word on the tip of my tongue. Once, a long time ago, in a tiny apartment that smelled of stale cigarettes, greasy food and general hopelessness, I fantasized of green grass. I pictured open fields and places to run. I wished for the sun upon my face.

I yearned. A giant aching need that took me years to identify.

I yearned for someone to love me.

Oh, Vero, I’m so sorry.

Dr. Celik leaves. The man who is my husband returns to my side. His face is serious again, deep lines creasing his dark features. But again, not unattractive.

He tries to smile when he sees that I’m awake; it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s worried. About me? Something else?

His collared shirt is light blue, unbuttoned at his throat. My gaze focuses on the exposed patch of skin, sun-bronzed from years spent outside. For a fraction of an instant, I can picture myself kissing that spot, trailing my tongue along his collarbone. I don’t just remember him. I can taste him. It makes me shiver.

“Hey there.” He takes my hand, as if to reassure me. His thumb is calloused.

My head pounds again. I am suddenly, bone-numbingly tired.

He seems to know. “Headache?”

I can’t talk. I just stare at him. His fingers release mine, rub my temples instead. I nearly sigh.

“Do you remember the accident?” he asks me.

I don’t, but I can’t speak yet, so I remain silent.

“According to the CT scan,” he continues, “you’ve suffered another concussion, the third in six months. For that matter, you bruised your sternum, dislocated a few ribs, and earned enough stitches to rival a quilt. But the ER docs have already done a nice job of patching you up. It’s the concussion, your third concussion, which has the neurologist concerned.”

“Causes . . . migraines,” I murmur.

“Yes. Not to mention varying degrees of confusion, anxiety, general exhaustion, light sensitivity and short-term amnesia. Plus, you know, other minor complications such as not recognizing your own husband.” He tries to sound lighthearted; it doesn’t work. “Your memory will come back,” he says, more seriously. “The headaches will fade. You’ll regain your ability to focus and function. But it’s going to take time. You need to rest, give your scrambled brain cells a chance to recover.”

“Alcohol is bad.”

He stills, regards me carefully with his dark-brown eyes. “Alcohol is not recommended for people suffering from traumatic brain injuries.”

“But I drink.”

“You did.”

“I’m a drunk.” He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the answer on his face. That once upon a time, he thought he would be enough for me. Obviously, he isn’t.

“What did you dream about when you were little?” I ask.

He frowns. He gets crow’s-feet around his eyes when he frowns. It should age him, make him less attractive. But again, it doesn’t.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Why not?”

He smiles. His thumbs are still moving on my temples, massaging little circles. This close, I can catch a hint of spice wafting from his skin, a clean, soapy fragrance that is both familiar and slightly intoxicating. If I could move, I would lean into him, inhale deeper.

But I don’t. Instead, I feel a darkness growing in the back of my head. A feeling of dread to counteract the allure of his scent.

Run.

But of course, I can’t. I lie on a hospital bed, pinned by white sheets and a concussed brain as my husband rubs my temples, strokes my hair.

“I dreamed the first time I saw you,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “I spotted you, across the proverbial crowded room. You weren’t looking at me at all. But I saw you and I . . . I felt I’d waited my whole life just for that moment. To find you. You consumed me, Nicky. You still do.”

His breath feathers across my cheek. Once again, I respond to the scent, would turn my head if I could.

Run.

Then I see it, a faded bruise along his jawline. I can’t help myself. I pull my arm from beneath the bedclothes. I touch the bruise, trace it with my fingertips, feel the rasp of morning whiskers he hasn’t had a chance to shave. He doesn’t retreat. But his fingers fall from my temples and I can tell he’s holding his breath.

I inflicted that bruise. I know that without a shadow of a doubt. I hit this man. And I’d do it again, if given half the chance.

“You hate me,” I whisper, not a question.

“Never,” he says. An obvious lie.

“You hate me,” he corrects, more quietly. “But you refuse to tell me why. Once, we were happy. And then . . . I still dream, Nicky. What about you?”

I’ve gone wrong, I think, taken a misstep. Because even if I don’t remember who I am, I like to think I know what I once dreamed, and it wasn’t this. It was never this.

Vero, I see her again, the image dark around the edges. Like the vision is fading from my tired mind, becoming impossible to focus. She turns, as if to walk away, and my first thought is to grab her hand. It’s important to keep her. I can’t let her go.

She looks at me. Her face is thinner, older, I realize with a start. She’s not a toddler anymore, but a girl, maybe ten, eleven, twelve.

“Why me?” she asks, voice plaintive.

“Vero,” I whisper.

“Shhh,” my husband says.

“Why me, why me, why me?”

She’s turning away again. Leaving me. I reach for her arm, but it slides free. I can’t hold her. The world so dark. My head about to explode. Or maybe it already did.

“Vero!”

“Nicky, please!”

I’m thrashing. I’m fighting. I know that, but I don’t know that. All that matters is that I get to Vero. He’s going to keep me from her. I realize that now. And it’s not the first time.

“Nurse, nurse!” Someone is yelling. The man who claims to be my husband is yelling.

Vero, Vero, Vero. She’s walking away from me.

I run. In the hospital bed? In my mind’s eye? Does it matter? I run; then I catch up to her. I snag her arm, hold on tight.

Vero turns.

As maggots burst from the empty sockets of her eyes and wriggle around her gleaming white skull.

“You should’ve told me that little girls were never meant to fly.”

*   *   *

ONE MOMENT. ONE memory. Then it’s gone.

And I’m no one at all, but a woman twice returned from the dead.

*   *   *

THE NURSE COMES. I don’t fight anymore. I lay perfectly still as she administers the sedative. I stare straight ahead. Past the nurse’s bent form. Past my husband’s haggard face. I stare at the open doorway and the two detectives waiting for me there.

Chapter 6

WYATT AND KEVIN arrived at the hospital just in time for the show. Their person of interest was thrashing wildly in the bed, while a man yelled for help and attempted to pin her down. Next came the nurse hustling in to administer a massive dose of sedative, and there went Wyatt’s best opportunity to get to the bottom of things.

Their female driver, Nicole Frank according to the vehicle’s registration, passed out cold. Only the man remained, breathing heavily and looking ragged around the edges.

Husband, Wyatt would guess. Or boyfriend. Whatever. Wyatt needed answers, he needed them now and he was willing to be flexible. He’d already sent a detective to the courthouse to request a search warrant for Mrs. Frank’s medical records, which would include the woman’s blood alcohol levels. He also had deputies backtracking from the accident site to neighboring liquor stores to prove exactly where and when she had purchased her eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch. In the short term, they were pursuing charges of aggravated DWI.

Of course, there still remained the issue of the missing child.

The nurse exited the room, barely sparing them a glance. That left the man. Late thirties to early forties. Six feet, one-eighty. Rugged sort of handsome, Wyatt thought women called it. Not a desk jockey, but a guy who actually worked for a living.

“Mr. Frank?” Wyatt took a guess.

“Yes?” He was staring at his wife with concern. Now he shifted his attention enough to shoot them an annoyed glance. Which Wyatt found interesting. Assuming the man’s daughter was the one missing, shouldn’t he be grateful to see two detectives? Even desperate, the concerned father demanding immediate answers? Instead his primary concern appeared to be his wife. Meaning he didn’t care about the girl at all? Or he already knew what had happened to Vero and why they couldn’t find her?

Wyatt felt the first thrum of adrenaline rush. He shot a look at Kevin, who seemed to share his suspicions. Both men, rather than surge forward immediately, instinctively fell back. In domestic situations, aggression rarely worked. Far better to be on the parent’s side. Be cool, be calm, be conversational. Then, bit by bit, spool out enough rope for the parent to hang him– or herself.

Wyatt started the process. Polite, nonconfrontational: “Can we speak to you a moment?”

“My wife,” the man started.

“Appears to be resting. We have some questions.”

“You’re the police,” the man stated. But he wasn’t arguing. He was heading toward them. He was going to play nice. Perfect.

Wyatt made the introductions, himself, then Kevin, earning the name Thomas Frank in return. Thomas, can I call you Tom? No, Thomas it is.

Wyatt offered the man some coffee. Another friendly gesture. This time of late morning, the hospital was a busy place, so maybe they could find a quiet corner to chat. When the husband appeared undecided, Wyatt and Kevin simply started walking down the overlit hallway to the hospital cafeteria. Sure enough, the husband fell into step behind them, too tired to argue.

One coffee purchase later, they had Mr. Frank tucked behind a fake ficus tree and it was time to get down to business.

“How do you know Nicole Frank?” Wyatt asked, just to be sure about things.

“Nicky? She’s my wife.”

“Been together long?”

Thomas Frank smiled thinly. “I know it sounds corny, but for me, she’s always been the one. First time I saw her, I just knew.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Film set. We were both working for a production company down in New Orleans. I was with set design; she worked craft services, you know, doling out food. I spotted her day one of a thirty-day shoot. Meant I had exactly one month to ask her out.”

“How long did it take you?” Wyatt asked curiously.

“Three days to say hi. Three weeks to get her to say hi back. She was shy even then.”

“Been together ever since?”

“Yes.”

“What brought you to New Hampshire?”

Thomas glanced up at them. His eyes were bloodshot, heavily shadowed. A man who hadn’t been sleeping well at night, Wyatt would guess, and that was before this. Wife troubles, work troubles, kid troubles? Again, Wyatt felt buzzed by the possibilities.

But Thomas merely shrugged. “Why not? It’s a good state. Mountains to hike, lakes to swim. Plus no sales or income tax. What’s not to love?”

“And your current job?” Wyatt asked, keeping with the slow-and-easy approach.

“Still in set design, only now I’m self-employed. I design and manufacture specific props, set pieces that are harder to find. Nicky helps—she does the fine-tuning, painting, cosmetics, that sort of thing.”

“Shouldn’t you be in LA?” Kevin asked. “Or New York? Someplace like that?”

Thomas shook his head. “Not necessary. Films are shot most anyplace, especially if the state or town is offering tax incentives. New Orleans, Seattle, Nashville, even Boston, lots of production work around here. And I don’t need to be on site. I have my contacts from the old days. Now the set guys come to me with what they need. I design it, build it, ship it. Done.”

“And Nicky, too?” Wyatt repeated.

“Yeah. Like I said.”

“Where was your wife last night, Mr. Frank?”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably, no longer meeting their gazes. “I thought at home,” he said, voice already rough. “Last I saw, she was asleep on the sofa.”

Kevin and Wyatt exchanged a glance. Time to start unspooling the rope, Wyatt thought.

“What time was that?” Wyatt asked, voice still perfectly polite.

“I don’t know. Eight, nine P.M.”

Wyatt regarded the man closely. “Little early to be down for the night,” he commented, as Kevin joined the fray:

“Last you saw—”

Thomas slammed down his coffee cup. “It’s not her fault!”

Neither detective said a word.

“I mean, we were fine. Everything was fine. Happy couple, happy life. Except then, six months ago, Nicky fell down the stairs. Was doing laundry, I don’t know. I found her passed out cold on the basement floor. Took her to the emergency room, where she was diagnosed with a mild concussion. No big deal, you think. Rest and recuperate. Except she had difficulty sleeping after that. And would lash out, no good reason. Headaches, fatigue, difficulty focusing. I did a little reading. Symptoms were consistent with someone recovering from a concussion. Told myself—and her—to be patient. Just a little more time. Except then just a few months later, I found Nicky sprawled on the front porch. She’d been walking out the door, she thought. Except she must’ve tripped or something. Bad news, she hit her head again. Two concussions, three months.”

The husband stared at them. Wyatt and Kevin returned his look, expressions stonier this time, allowing him to see their skepticism, feel the heat.

“Post-concussive syndrome,” the man bit out. “My wife isn’t a drunk. At least she didn’t used to be. She’s not violent either. At least she didn’t used to be.” He turned his head slightly, revealing the shadow of a bruise along the man’s jaw. “But the falls, multiple brain traumas . . . The neurologist tells me each subsequent injury has an exponential effect. I don’t really understand it. I just know my wife . . . She’s not herself these days.”

“So you left her unattended yesterday evening,” Wyatt murmured.

“I went to my work shed! We have a separate building, on the rear of our property, that houses all my tools, equipment. That’s where I work, and for the love of God . . . I’ve been tending Nicky, most days, all days. Now I’m behind. Because that’s what happens when you have a sick spouse. You get behind on work while having even more bills to pay. She falls asleep, I bolt out the door. I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I’m saying it’s what I have to do to hold things together. Docs want her in a stable environment on a normal routine. Losing our house right now because I can’t pay the mortgage doesn’t accomplish either of those things.”

“Where’d she get the scotch?” Kevin drawled.

Thomas Frank flushed. He picked his coffee cup back up, took a sip. “I don’t know.”

“Car keys?” Wyatt piled on.

“In the basket by the front door. It’s not like she’d been banned from driving; the docs just don’t recommend it.”

“Probably don’t recommend her drinking either.” Kevin again.

Thin lips. “No. They don’t.”

“But she does.” Wyatt, jerking the man’s attention back to him. Because now was the time; he could feel it. Thomas Frank was agitated and angry. Fractured and unfocused.

And he’d just given him most of his and his wife’s life story, without ever mentioning a little girl name Vero.

Wyatt leaned forward. He stared deep into Thomas’s eyes, as if searching for the truth, or maybe just trying to figure out if the man really was as big an asshole as they suspected. From the other side, Kevin did the same.

Closing in. Dropping the hammer.

“Tell us about your daughter,” Wyatt said. “Where was she last night?”

Thomas Frank didn’t recoil. He didn’t shudder reflexively or even jerk away. Instead, he regarded them blankly. “What?”

“Your daughter, Vero. The little girl who’s missing.”

Of all the reactions Wyatt had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Thomas closed his eyes. He sighed heavily. “I don’t have a daughter.”

“Nicky’s daughter, then—”

“Sergeant . . . We don’t have kids. Any kids. Not mine, not hers, not ours. And I would know. We’ve been together twenty-two years.”

*   *   *

“LOOK, EVER SINCE the first concussion, Nicky has had trouble sleeping. She has horrible nightmares, except the dreams, episodes, whatever, don’t always happen at night. It’s like her brain has been turned inside out and upside down. She can’t remember people she knows—say, my name, but on the other hand she rants about people who don’t exist. Best I can tell, the real has become imaginary, the imaginary, real. We’ve consulted with doctors, played with some meds. But the best advice the docs have for us is to practice our patience. Traumatic brain injuries take time to heal.”

“Vero doesn’t exist.” Wyatt had to test out the statement. Because of all the information he’d expected to learn from this conversation, that wasn’t it.

“There is no Vero.”

“But you know the name,” Kevin pointed out, looking as perplexed as Wyatt felt.

“She’s called it out before, mostly in her sleep. Plus there’ve been some . . . episodes. Look, in the beginning, I got confused myself, maybe there was something I didn’t know. But here’s the deal. If you really get her going about this . . . Vero . . . the story, who she is, constantly changes. Sometimes Vero is a little girl, maybe a baby that Nicky is caring for. But once I found Nicky hiding in a closet, because she and ‘Vero’ were playing hide-and-seek. Then there was the evening she burned dinner because ‘Vero’ had been yelling at her all evening. Teenagers, she told me. I think . . . Hell, I don’t know what to think. But Vero isn’t a real person. More like a massive mental misfire.”

“When Officer Reynes was at the scene,” Wyatt pressed, “he claimed your wife was pretty adamant. She’d lost Vero. She was just a little girl. She had to be found. Your wife sounded pretty convincing.”

“Welcome to my world.” Thomas Frank sighed again. He didn’t sound sarcastic; more like a man who was very tired. “I can give you the name of our neurologist, Dr. Sare Celik,” he offered. “Maybe she can help you understand.”

“Could the name come from a family member? A sister, past friend?”

“Nicky doesn’t have any family. When I met her she was just a teenager and already on her own, had been for a couple of years. She doesn’t like to talk about it. In the beginning, I pressed. But now, twenty-two years later . . . What does it matter? Everything”—Thomas Frank paused, eyed them meaningfully—“everything has been great since then. We’ve never had any problems; Nicky’s never had any problems. You have to believe me on this. My wife is just . . . sick. Ask the doctors. Please, talk to them.”

“Walk us through last night. What happened?”

“Nicky cooked chicken,” Thomas replied immediately, “meaning it was a good night for her. Focus is tricky with TBIs. Sometimes she starts a project, say, cooking, and then . . . blanks out. Walks away or something. But yesterday, she started and finished baked chicken, with no fires in between.”

“What were you doing while she cooked?”

“Returning some calls. In the house, in case I needed to jump up and turn off a burner, but trying to squeeze in some work.”

“You ate dinner. Wine, beer?”

“Alcohol isn’t recommended for people recovering from brain injuries,” Thomas recited.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No wine, no beer, no alcohol. We ate chicken, a garden salad, and garlic bread.”

“And then?”

“We watched some TV. Home and garden channel, light stuff. It’s important that my wife not get agitated.”

Wyatt got the time, name of show, and wrote it down.

“So it’s now eight P.M. . . .”

“More like seven thirty. Nicky dozed off on the couch. I glanced at the clock, figured it was too early to call it a night, so again, I should get some work done. I placed a blanket on my wife, then crept out the back to the work shed.”

“When did you return?”

“I don’t know. Eleven P.M.”

“And you discovered Nicky missing?”

“I noticed she wasn’t on the sofa. But my first thought was that she must have gone upstairs to bed. I watched the evening news, then headed up myself. That’s when I realized my mistake.”

“What’d you do?”

“Went around the house, calling her name. Then wised up and checked the driveway for her car. Noticed that was gone, too, not a good idea in my opinion, so I called her cell.”

Wyatt nodded, encouraging the man to continue.

But Thomas Frank simply shrugged. “She never picked up. I honestly didn’t know what my wife was doing till the hospital called and said my wife was in the emergency room. That’s the first I knew of the accident.”

“What do you think your wife was doing from eight P.M. to five A.M.?” Wyatt asked.

“I don’t know. Driving,” Thomas stuttered, “drinking” being the other obvious answer.

“Any person she might have met? Friend, confidante?” Lover?

“We’re new to the area. Had barely unpacked when Nicky suffered her first fall. We’ve only met medical personnel since then. Not . . . friends.”

Wyatt thought Mr. Frank sounded a tad resentful.

“Any reason she’d be on that stretch of road? Restaurant, shop, favorite haunt around there?”

“We haven’t gotten out much.”

“Your wife partial to a particular brand of scotch?”

Thomas thinned his lips, refused to answer. Wyatt wasn’t surprised. In all the DWI interviews he’d done of family members, they were the last to volunteer information. There was a reason they were called enablers, after all.

Wyatt changed tack. “And Vero? Any reason to get the police involved on a wild-goose chase to find an imaginary child?”

“She doesn’t mean it like that. You and I know Vero doesn’t exist. But for Nicky . . . Vero, something about her, is very real.”

“So what set her off before?” Wyatt asked. “When we first arrived.”

“I have no idea. I often don’t. Routine and redundancy; that’s my wife’s life for the next year.”

“In between bottles of scotch?”

“Look.” Thomas Frank leaned forward, rested his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what happened last night, but you can check my wife’s record. This is her first offense. Can’t you just issue a ticket or something?”

“Issue a ticket? Mr. Frank, your wife is facing at least one count of aggravated DWI. It’s a felony offense.”

“But she didn’t hurt anyone!”

“She hurt herself. According to the statutes, that’s good enough.”

Mr. Frank sat back. He honestly appeared appalled.

“But . . . but . . .”

“Not to mention,” Wyatt continued, “she’s tied up hours of county and state resources looking for a child who doesn’t exist.”

“It’s not her fault!”

“And yet—”

“Please, you have to understand . . .” Thomas Frank appeared wild-eyed, nearly panicked. “My wife is not a bad person. She’s just sick. I’ll take care of her. Watch her more closely. It won’t happen again.”

“I thought you had to work. Behind on the bills and all that.”

“I’ll take a leave of absence. Or hire a companion or something. Please, Detectives. There’s no need to pursue any charges. My wife is going to be all right. I promise you, I’ll take care of everything.”

Wyatt eyed the man carefully. Thomas Frank, he decided, was not lying. He honestly believed he could take care of anything and everything. And yet . . . there was something here that just didn’t feel right to Wyatt. Detective’s intuition, twenty years of experience that suggested when a wife was in the hospital, the husband was the most likely suspect. Wyatt didn’t know anything about this post-concussive syndrome. He just knew families, all families, inevitably had something to hide. He took one last shot over the bow:

“What about Vero?” Wyatt asked. “Gonna take care of her, too?”

And had the satisfaction of finally seeing the man flinch.