Better Late, But Never His Again novel Chapter 44

"What in the world happened?" She quickly stepped aside, ushering them in.

Hazel practically hauled Zachary into the living room and helped him collapse onto the sofa. She panted, trying to catch her breath, and gave a rushed explanation. "Queenie, this is Zachary from Sycamore Lane. I don't know how he got hurt, but he was passed out in the bushes downstairs. He refused to go to the hospital, so I had to bring him up."

Queenie stared at Zachary, her eyes locking onto the horrifying amount of blood soaking his shirt. She went pale. "I'll get the first-aid kit."

Hazel turned back to Zachary. "Can you walk? Let's get you into the guest room, and I'll clean the wound."

Zachary didn't speak. Gripping the armrest, he forced himself up. Hazel steadied him, leading him into the spare bedroom and easing him onto the edge of the mattress. Queenie was already hovering in the doorway with the medical supplies.

"Hazel, do you need my help?"

Hazel took the heavy kit from her hands. "It's fine, Queenie. You go back to bed; I'll handle this."

Queenie hesitated, casting a worried glance past Hazel's shoulder. Under the bright overhead light, Zachary looked like a corpse, and the amount of blood on his clothes was sickening.

"Should we secretly call the police?" she whispered frantically.

Hazel went quiet for a second before shaking her head. "Let's just assess the situation first. Get some rest, Queenie. I've got this under control."

Queenie gave Zachary one last anxious look, sighed heavily, and retreated to her own room. The door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone.

Hazel carried the medical box to the bed and sat down beside him.

Now that the glaring white bulb illuminated his face, she could see exactly how brutal his condition was. His lips were entirely bloodless, a layer of cold sweat beaded his forehead, and his shirt from his left armpit all the way down to his waist was entirely drenched in dark crimson.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

"Take your shirt off."

Zachary lifted his heavy, apathetic eyelids and gave her a flat stare. Without a word, he reached out, snatched the medical kit straight out of her hands, and said, "I'll do it myself. Get out."

Hazel bristled at his arrogant, ungrateful attitude. "This is my house. The least you could do is be polite."

She shoved the bottle aside, digging out a milder antibacterial ointment and fresh sterile pads. Then she sat right beside him on the mattress, pinned his good shoulder back, and glared down at him.

"Stop moving."

Her voice was dead serious. "I'm going to bandage you up. If you die in this bed, neither of us can afford a homicide investigation."

"I only brought you up here because you restored Professor Finch's painting for me. I'm guessing you don't want to drag me down with you, do you?"

Zachary's thin lips pressed into a harsh line, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his icy gaze.

Finally, the resistance drained out of him. He leaned back fully against the headboard and closed his eyes.

Hazel exhaled a long breath of relief. She carefully parted the ruined fabric of his shirt. The laceration was on his left side, dangerously close to his heart.

Though it didn't look fatal, the gash was deep and jagged, the torn flesh a gruesome sight. Frowning, she soaked a cotton swab in a mild antiseptic and began to painstakingly clean the skin around the horrific injury.