The realization should have terrified her; this level of commitment to another person had never been part of her carefully structured life. Instead, watching Jenna's chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath, Michelle felt a curious sense of certainty. Whatever had developed between them during their three weeks undercover, it had become real enough to override her most fundamental instinct for self-preservation.
Jenna stirred, a small frown crossing her features as she shifted in the uncomfortable chair. Her eyes opened,immediately finding Michelle's—then widening with surprised recognition.
"You're awake," she breathed, straightening with a wince as her body protested the awkward sleeping position.
Michelle attempted to speak, but her throat produced only a dry rasp. Jenna instantly reached for the water cup on the side table, guiding the straw to Michelle's lips.
The cool liquid soothed her raw throat, allowing her to produce a single word: "Time?"
"Tuesday afternoon," Jenna replied, understanding the question's multiple layers. "You've been in and out for about three days. The doctor said you probably wouldn't remember the brief periods of consciousness."
Three days. Michelle absorbed this information with professional detachment. Three days since the operation concluded, since Kendall's bullet had torn through her shoulder, since Jenna's hands had kept her from bleeding out on the cliffside path.
"Success?" she managed, the word scratching its way past her damaged throat.
Jenna's expression softened, a sad smile touching her lips. "Yes. Complete success. Seventeen arrests including Sienna and Isabella. The financial records confirm direct payments to the victims' families—hush money after they died. Those women will get justice, Michelle. You made sure of it."
Professional satisfaction filtered through the fog of pain medication, though weaker than she might have expected. The knowledge that Beatrice, Gabrielle, and Angelica would receive justice mattered deeply—but somehow less than the fact that Jenna was here, safe and whole, speaking to her with that careful tenderness she had come to love.
"Kendall?" Michelle asked, each word requiring deliberate effort.
"In custody. Multiple charges, including attempted murder of a police officer." Jenna's hand moved to the bed rail, fingers curling around the metal as if needing something solid to ground her. "The evidence is overwhelming. None of them will see freedom again."
Michelle nodded slightly, the movement sending a jolt of pain through her left shoulder. She couldn't hide her wince, and Jenna immediately leaned forward, concern etching her features.
"Are you okay? Should I call the nurse?"
"I'm fine," Michelle replied automatically, the phrase so ingrained it emerged before conscious thought.
Jenna's expression shifted, something both familiar and new entering her gaze. "No, you're not. But you will be."
The simple statement—acknowledging reality while offering reassurance without platitudes—encompassed everything Michelle was beginning to understand about Jenna Walsh. Perceptive enough to see through facades. Honest enough to name truths. Compassionate enough to offer hope alongside reality.
"The doctor said recovery will take time," Jenna continued, her voice softening. "The bullet damaged your subclavian artery. You lost a lot of blood before reaching the hospital. They weren't sure—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "They weren't sure you'd make it through that first night."
She cataloged this information clinically: major vessel damage, significant blood loss, critical condition. The woman underneath that professional veneer registered something far more important: the slight tremor in Jenna's voice, the shadows under her eyes speaking of sleepless nights, the way she unconsciously leaned toward Michelle as if physical proximity might somehow protect against further harm.
"How long have you been here?" Michelle asked, each word slightly stronger than the last as her body remembered how to speak.
"I went home to shower and change that first day," Jenna replied. "Been here mostly since then."
The admission created a warm pressure in Michelle's chest. Before she could respond, the door opened, admitting a woman in a white coat, her hair pulled back under a hijab, stethoscope draped around her neck.
"Captain Reyes," she greeted with professional warmth. "I'm Dr. Samira Hassan. It's good to see you fully conscious."
Michelle attempted to sit straighter, instinctively reaching for the dignified posture she maintained in professional settings. The movement sent fiery pain radiating from her shoulder, forcing a sharp intake of breath that did nothing to ease the discomfort.
"Easy," Dr. Hassan cautioned, moving to adjust the bed's controls. "Your body needs time to heal."
The doctor proceeded with a thorough examination, checking vital signs and bandages, explaining Michelle's condition in clear, direct terms that respected her intelligence. The bullet had entered below her left collarbone, damaging the subclavian artery before lodging against her shoulder blade. Surgery had repaired the vascular damage, but significant blood loss had complicated recovery. Physical therapy would be required to restore full function to her left arm.
"You're extremely lucky," Dr. Hassan concluded. "If Detective Walsh hadn't applied immediate pressure or if the bullet had been half an inch lower..." She left the implication hanging, her expression communicating what words didn't need to.
Michelle's gaze shifted to Jenna, who had stepped back during the examination but remained within sight. Somethingin her face—a vulnerability quickly masked—suggested she'd already experienced this particular "what if" scenario repeatedly during Michelle's unconscious days.
"When can I return to duty?" Michelle asked, automatic professionalism reasserting itself.
Dr. Hassan's eyebrow rose slightly. "Limited desk duty might be possible in three to four weeks, depending on your progress. Full duty, including field work, would be at least eight to twelve weeks, possibly longer."
