Broken Hands

137. Cut short

The hospital bustled with a low hum of activity—patients moving through the halls, some slowly, some with quiet urgency, while nurses in white uniforms maneuvered like drones, tending to their duties. Damien never liked hospitals. They weren't places of rest; they were places of tension, places that made people question their faith. Some never made it back through the same doors they entered.

He walked down the hall toward Room 169, his mind set on one thing—getting Grayson home. But the process was proving difficult. The charges against him meant he had to speak to the investigators before they could clear him. It had already been two weeks since Grayson was brought in. Too long. Alex had informed him that Grayson was stable enough to talk, so Damien was here to make sure things moved along.

But he had his own questions, ones that stretched beyond the hospital walls. Someone had to answer for what happened to Grayson—from the people in Miami to those in Bimini. How had Grayson even gotten to the island under the nose of border security?

Damien didn't bother knocking. He simply strolled in.

A nurse stood beside Grayson, carefully wrapping a fresh bandage around his head.

Grayson met his gaze immediately, something unusual. Not looking away. No defiance. Not after what had happened—not after nearly getting himself and Russell killed.

"Rest well, Grayson. I'll be back by noon for your shots," the nurse said, then turned, nodding politely at Damien. "Mr. Smith."

As she left, Grayson reached for the notebook on his lap and slid it onto the small table beside the bed. Damien pulled up a chair, sitting down without preamble.

"Heard you were sober," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Grayson's expression shifted, like he suddenly didn't want this conversation. "Yeah. Good."

"Great," Damien muttered.

Grayson exhaled, cutting straight to the point. "Time to face the heat I guess."

"I'm not here for that." Damien's tone was firm. "Not yet. If I start now, it'll do neither of us any good." There was a tightness in his voice, anger creeping back in. Every time he thought about what had happened—how reckless, how suicidal Grayson had been—his frustration threatened to boil over.

Grayson tensed but said nothing. He just listened. Silvery gray eyes searching, probing.

"I'm not sure you're ready for this, but as you know, you have to own up to certain things. Regardless of your condition." Damien's voice was instructive, leaving no room for argument.

"There are charges being pressed against you by the authorities."

Grayson didn't react.

"You'll have to talk to the investigators. Tell them the truth, but you must only respond to their questions. No need to go into details or additional explanation."

"All right," Grayson finally replied.

Damien studied him for a moment before adding, "You can either affirm or deny a claim. Choose wisely."

Grayson nodded once.

Damien leaned back in his seat, studying Grayson for a bit too long, causing him to casually avert his gaze—just as Damien had expected.

"I need you to tell me what happened," Damien said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not trying to drag you through this again. I need to know, Grayson. I need a trail."

Grayson laced his fingers together, staring at them for a moment before speaking. "It was not supposed to go wrong." He began, "We were done with the race. Everything looked fine. We were supposed to head back home, but Eddie insisted we go to his house to celebrate. He said there were more contracts, sponsors..." Grayson's gaze flickered to Damien.