He dragged himself toward the street, one arm wrapped around his ribs, and got his phone out and dialed 911, and as he lay there giving the dispatcher the cross streets between gasps, his free hand brushed something on the asphalt — a second phone, not his, dropped in the struggle.

Its screen was still lit. And as he looked at it, a new message slid down onto the lock screen from a number with no name attached.

Make sure he gets the point tonight. If he still won’t sign the waiver, you know what to do with the kid at the hospital.

Brandon closed his bloody hand around the phone and did not let go of it, not when the sirens came, not when the paramedics lifted him onto the gurney, not until he could put it into the hand of someone who could use it.

Chapter 8 — Detective Patton

He woke in the trauma unit with his chest wrapped tight and a dull, deep ache under the bandages every time he breathed. A woman was sitting beside the bed in a chair, watching him surface — mid-forties, plain suit, steady eyes.

On her knee, sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag, was the phone.