As he backed off so the doctor could come over and inspect things, Gin followed him with her eyes. After a little pacing, he settled across the way, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms—and then saying something to her brother Max.

Samuel T.’s shirt was ruined, blood and mud staining what had been bright white Egyptian cotton.

Even though he had plenty of other monogrammed button-downs in his closet, she felt an absurd need to pay for the dry cleaning—even though given the extent of the mess, that wasn’t going to help much. Maybe she would just order him a new one. Did he still get them from Turnbull & Asser? No reason to think he’d changed.

Tanesha knelt down in front of her, put a red box with a red and white cross on it on the floor, and laid her hands lightly on Gin’s knees. “May I take a look at your head?”

“Thank you.”

Gin lowered the dish towel slowly. She had a feeling she was going to be moving that way for a while. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I’m glad.” The doctor leaned in and tilted Gin’s chin left and right. “Okay, let’s check your pupils first.”

Tanesha took a penlight out of her pocket and flashed it in one eye and then the other. “Good. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ordering herself to focus, Gin murmured, “Two.”

“Follow my finger, but keep your head in place, okay? Good.” Tanesha sat back on her heels, opened the box, and took out supplies. “You’ve got a nice little laceration over your brow—but I think I can close it with butterfly bandages. Have you had a tetanus shot lately?”

“Yes, six months ago. I tripped outside and needed to get some stitches in the bottom of my foot.”

And to think she’d felt like that was a big deal.

“Good. I’m glad you’re up to date.” Tanesha drew blue gloves on and smiled in a way that suggested Everything Was Going to Be Okay. “After this, we’re going to check your leg, all right?”

“Is it hurt?”

Tanesha stilled. “Yes, Gin. It is.”

“Oh, I don’t feel anything.”

There was a sadness in the doctor’s face as she set to work cleaning the wound with medicated pads, and to help ignore that, Gin passed the time looking at the two men in the barren little room: Samuel T. was still up against the wall, although he was watching Tanesha carefully, as if he were prepared to help even though he was a lawyer, not a physician; and Max was over in the shallow kitchen area, a leather jacket hanging on his arm as if he were leaving at any moment.

He was also watching the good doctor. No doubt for a different reason.

What was it about her generation in the family that bred relationships that went nowhere? She and Samuel T., Edward and that Sutton Smythe . . . Max and Tanesha. Lizzie and Lane appeared to be getting it together, but that was either because they were the exception that proved the rule . . .

Or destined to fail terribly.

“All right, how about your leg?”

“Do you think I’ve been shot?” Gin extended one foot, and when Tanesha shook her head, she offered the other. “I’m not . . .”

Well, this was interesting. There appeared to be a deep stripe running up the front of her shin. As if she had been branded.

“Oh, God,” Tanesha said tightly. After a moment, she moved back and just stared at the wound. “As a mandatory reporter, I’m in a difficult spot here.”

“I’m sorry,” Gin offered. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Tanesha rubbed her eyes with the back of her forearm, keeping her gloved hands out of the way. “Okay, let’s just see what we have here.”

The woman refocused, and gently moved Gin’s leg left and right—and then she was feeling her way around with careful fingertips. Gin didn’t really care what was going on down there, but it seemed rude not to participate in some way—so she sat forward.

“That should probably hurt, shouldn’t it,” she said.

“I think you’ve got some shock going on.” Tanesha took more supplies out of her box. “The good news is that I don’t see any evidence that there’s a bullet embedded anywhere—it looks like one got very close to you, however. You were very lucky.”

What was the polite response to something like that, Gin wondered. She was quite sure that Emily Post had never covered anything under the heading of “Gunshot Wounds: Aftercare.”

She went with the bog standard: “Thank you, kindly.”

After her leg was bandaged up, Tanesha looked over at Samuel T. “Where is the other party?” When the man just shook his head, she frowned. “Is he or she dead? Because I might be willing to fudge this one wound here, but if there’s a homicide involved in all this, I will not be a party to any of it.”

“The other individual is very much alive and well,” Samuel T. said. “And they are getting an annulment.”

Tanesha took a deep breath. “Let me ask you something. Dr. Qalbi and his father are your all’s personal physicians, why didn’t you—”

Samuel T. cut in. “We called you because the father is retiring, and the son is in Scotland visiting the other side of his family. He’s out of the country for two weeks.”

“Fair enough.” Tanesha glanced across at Max. “Could you please bring me a trash bag?”

As he obligingly ducked down under the kitchen sink, the doctor turned back to Gin. “I’m going to need to check you in a day. And I want you on antibiotics. I’ll write you a prescription for a broad spectrum—are you allergic to anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good.”

Max brought the trash bag over and fluffed it out, holding the thing open for Tanesha as she put all the used gauze and wipes in there. When the doctor was finished picking up, he closed the bag and tied it; then walked the medical debris out the back of the little house.

“I want you to get this filled tonight.” Tanesha wrote quickly on a pad. “And take one before bed. I don’t think you’ll need anything more than Motrin or Tylenol for pain. If you have blurred vision, nausea, or vomiting, let me know. You may have a concussion, but it’s not like I can tell by an X-ray or a scan. Who’s filling this for her?”

Samuel T. cleared his throat. “I will. Should she be in bed?”

“Yes, I want you to take it easy,” Tanesha said to Gin. “Definitely.”

“Thank you.”

Tanesha gave her a hug. “You’re welcome—and I’ll see you late tomorrow. I’ll stop by on the way home from the hospital.”

As Max came back in, Tanesha stood up. “Walk me out, Samuel T., if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tanesha hesitated. And then glanced over at Max. “It was, ah, nice to see you, Maxwell. Although I’m sorry for the circumstances.”

“Yeah.” He gave her a little bow. “Me, too.”

Samuel T. and the doctor left, and Gin eased back into the stiff cushions. As an awkward silence cropped up between her and Max, she was reminded that she and her brother had never had much in common—and clearly, all of the drama she had been through hadn’t changed that: He shifted his weight from one black boot to another. Put his jacket on. Played with his keys.

Looked anywhere but at her.

Ordinarily, she would have poked at him just to pass the time: Made fun of that hideous bushy beard he’d grown. Questioned the why of all those tattoos. Demanded to know, not that she cared, when exactly he was leaving: now . . . or how ’bout now?

She closed her eyes.

After a moment, she heard him move around. And then he said, “Here.”

Opening her lids, she frowned at the paper towel he was holding out to her. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re crying.”

“Am I?” She took what he offered only so he didn’t have to keep his arm out like that. “Thank you.”

Except then she just closed her eyes again. And slowly wadded the thing up into a fist.

It was odd to cry and not feel anything. But that was far better than the alternative.