Chapter 4 - The First Step Hurt More Than the Bullet
Recovery happened at night.
By day, Grant remained the broken man Carter expected.
By midnight, the east-wing gym became war.
Owen replaced the poison with treatment designed to restore normal neuromuscular function. A rehabilitation specialist Dominic trusted entered the mansion disguised as a security consultant.
Nobody used Grant’s name over the phone.
Nobody created appointments.
Nobody generated insurance records.
Grant hated every minute.
Standing required two men and parallel bars.
The first attempt lasted three seconds.
His legs shook violently.
His back felt as if the bullet had entered again.
He collapsed.
“Again,” Grant said.
Owen shook his head. “Tomorrow.”
“Again.”
The second attempt lasted five seconds.
The third lasted eight.
By night four, Grant could transfer his weight from one leg to the other.
By night six, he took one step.
Then fell hard enough to split his palm.
He lay on the floor breathing through pain.
“Enough,” Owen said.
Grant pushed himself upright.
“No.”
The gym door opened.
Claire stood there.
She held a basket of folded towels.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then her eyes dropped to Grant’s legs.
He was standing between the bars.
Barely.
But standing.
Claire closed the door quietly behind her.
“How long?” she asked.
“Six days.”
“Does Carter know?”
“No.”
“Does Lily?”
“No.”
A small voice came from behind Claire.
“Yes.”
Lily stepped around her mother wearing pink pajamas and carrying a stuffed rabbit.
Claire closed her eyes.
“Lily.”
The little girl ignored her.
She stared at Grant.
Then smiled with such complete certainty that the entire painful night suddenly seemed worthwhile.
“I told you your feet were sleeping.”
Grant laughed despite himself.
Lily walked over and wagged one finger at his legs.
“Wake up faster.”
Grant looked at Claire.
Claire covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
That was the first night the recovery stopped feeling like revenge.
It became something else.
Hope.
Claire stayed.
She learned how to cover bruises on Grant’s hands with bandages that looked like wheelchair abrasions.
She helped adjust his meals so Carter wouldn’t notice his strength returning.
She invented excuses when Lily nearly announced the secret at breakfast.
And every night, Grant walked slightly farther.
Seven feet.
Eleven.
Seventeen.
Then one full length of the room.
The morning after his first twenty-foot walk, Carter entered the library smiling.
“Looking tired, brother.”
Grant let his head fall back against the wheelchair.
“Bad night.”
Carter squeezed his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. Soon you won’t have to worry about anything.”
Grant looked up at him.
“Counting the days?”
Carter’s smile froze.
Then returned.
“Aren’t we all?”
Grant watched him leave.
May you like
Nine days remained.
And Carter had no idea the dead man in the chair had already taken his first steps back toward him.
