“So, if someone jumps out of the bushes with a gun and tries to shoot me, you’re diving in front of the bullet?”

“I’m shooting the bastard first. You’re on PTSD watch, you know.”

“Posttraumatic stress disorder doesn’t happen in a day. It’s normal to have the yips right after a crisis.”

“The yips, Lieutenant?”

“Sleeplessness, flashbacks, startle response. Not that I have any of that. I told you, I slept like a baby-”

“Bob. Stop, okay? I know.”

He grinned at the younger detective. “Is that the first time you’ve called me by my first name? Honest, Yarborough, we might make a human being out of you yet.”

Yarborough clamped his mouth shut, a muscle working in his jaw as he got out his keys and walked to his car. He unlocked the passenger door. “I keep wondering where Abigail spent the night.”

“No point going down that road.”

“She’s good, but…” Yarborough yanked open the door and stood to one side for Bob to get in. “It’s okay. I checked for bombs already.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine, Yarborough.”

“Always aim to please the boss.”

Bob got rid of him when they arrived at the hospital. There were enough cops there for him to get a ride to BPD headquarters if he needed one, and Yarborough was clearly itching to do something besides escort him around town.

And Bob was right. He found his eldest daughter shivering in the corridor outside Scoop’s hospital room. Scoop had been moved out of ICU to a regular room, another positive sign. It wasn’t the air-conditioning that had Fiona shivering. If anything, the temperature was on the warm side. She was on edge. Bob wasn’t thrilled with her for refusing police protection, but he melted when he saw her. Uniformed officers were posted outside Scoop’s room and drifting past her while she mustered courage to go in and see him.

Scoop’s family was there. His colleagues from internal affairs. Bob wasn’t going to embarrass Fiona-or himself-by treating her like a two-year-old, but she had to go back under police protection. Just because she was over eighteen didn’t mean she didn’t have to listen to his common sense advice.

She tried to smile. “This is worse than any performance anxiety I’ve experienced,” she said, her arms crossed tight on her chest. “Performing is nothing compared to facing a man who nearly died saving your life.”

“Scoop won’t look at it that way,” Bob said.

“I don’t care how he looks at it. It’s what happened.”

“I know, Fi.”

A white-coated doctor who didn’t look much older than Fiona came out of Scoop’s room. “You can go in now,” she said. “He’s awake.”

Fiona nodded without speaking.

The doctor headed for the nurses’ station. When his daughter still didn’t move, Bob said, “Scoop will want to see you and know you’re okay.”

She blinked back tears. “He saved my life,” she said again.

Bob had talked to Theresa last night, and she’d told him Fi had been repeating those words ever since they’d left his burned-up house.

“Maybe you saved his life, too. If you hadn’t been there, he might have gone for the porch and Abigail when the bomb went off. Instead he grabbed you and dived for cover.” Bob nodded to the doorway. “Go on in, Fi. Just talk to him a few minutes.”

She nodded, and Bob gritted his teeth as he watched his daughter enter the small room and walk up to one side of Scoop’s bed. Scoop was on his side, bandaged, bruised, stuck with IVs. He had his own clicker for pain medication.

“Hey, Scoop,” Fiona said, her voice clear and strong now. “How’re you feeling? Don’t talk if it hurts.”

“I’m getting there. You?”

Standing just outside in the hall, Bob could barely hear him.

“Just some bumps and bruises,” Fiona said. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Bob knew that Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones would have asked her not to mention Abigail to anyone, even to Scoop, not just to keep him from worrying about her but to maintain tight control over the investigation.

“I just wanted to say hi and thank you,” she added, her voice a little less strong.

“Don’t thank me, Fi. I should have spotted the bomb.” Scoop sounded weak, drugged, but lucid. “Before it went off. You got a detail on you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Fiona.”

Bob grinned to himself. Good for you, Scoop, he thought.

“I said no.” She was defensive now. “I don’t want a protective detail. I don’t need one. The bomb wasn’t meant for me.”

“Abigail,” Scoop said.

Bad move, Bob thought. She should have lied and told him she had a protective detail. Even drugged and fighting pain, Scoop would have his cop instincts. As an internal affairs detective, he was used to penetrating lies told by men and women trained to see through them. He was the best in the department at detecting any type of lie.

Fiona sniffled. “Sorry, Scoop, I didn’t hear you. I should leave. You should be with your family. I’m taking it easy today. I’m heading over to the Garrison house to practice.”

“Good. Play an Irish tune for me.”

“I will. I’ll play something fun. Something happy.”

But Scoop didn’t respond, and Bob saw he’d drifted off. Fiona withdrew, bursting into tears when she reached her father. He tried to hug her, but she jerked away. The officers watched her closely, and he could tell they knew she was his daughter. So could she, and it just irritated her more.

Better irritated than sobbing and shivering.

She ran down the hall. Bob didn’t go after her. The foundation staff would be back to work at the Garrison house, and patrol cars would be making frequent checks.

He went in to see Scoop. “You awake?”

“No.”

“You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

“They say you’re going to live.”

Scoop paid no attention. “While I have the energy.” He licked dry, chapped lips. “Before I konk out again. There’s a woman.”

“There always is with you.”

“That’s not what I mean. Black hair. Long, straight. Little thing. Green eyes. She was on our street.”

“Okay,” Bob said, unimpressed.

Scoop seemed to try to focus, but his eyelids were swollen from the fluids being pumped into him. “Day before the bomb. She stopped in front of the house. Said she had shin splints.”

“She got your attention?”

“Yeah. I wondered…” He licked his lips again, his movements sluggish as he struggled to stay alert.

The man needed rest. “I’ll look into it,” Bob said. “A small woman with black hair, green eyes and shin splints.”

Bob didn’t tell Scoop, but the description also fit the woman in Ireland who’d taken on the s.o.b. sent to kill Keira. Michael Murphy continued to deny he intended to hurt anyone, but the Irish police didn’t believe him. Bob didn’t, either.

“Abigail was on to something,” Scoop said in a slurred whisper. “She…her father…ask her.”

Bob wouldn’t lie to Scoop about Abigail, but he didn’t have to. Scoop was out.

On his way out of the hospital, Bob dialed Theresa’s cell number. “You know Fiona was just here visiting Scoop?”

“I assumed as much. She went back to her apartment first thing this morning. One way to get her out of bed early, put a police detail on her.”

“It’s a thought,” Bob said without humor. “At least her apartment’s in BPD jurisdiction. We can keep an eye on her.”

Theresa got all hot. “If you’re implying I should have kept her here, I tried. She’s as stubborn as you are.”

“You’re at work today?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just a question. Yes or no answer. Easy.”

“Yes.”

Bob ignored her tight, irritated tone. He didn’t even blame her for being testy.

“If you have vacation days left, take them. Go to the beach with the girls.”

“Fiona won’t go. She and her band have paying gigs. Classes start soon. She-”

“You can make her go.”

“So could you. You’ve got a gun, because that’s what it’ll take. She’s nineteen, Bob. She makes her own decisions. It’s time you respected that.”