I sat around, waiting for Ewan to finish his rounds. I always hated hospitals; the morgue was much more comforting. Ewan interpreted this to be a fear of someone dying on my watch. In the morgue, everyone was already dead.
Looking over to my right I saw Nick's comatose aunt laying in her bed. The poor woman had cancer and had been attacked twice. My brows furrowed when I saw a familiar man pacing in her room. It was Eddie Monroe, our first suspect for our Howell kidnapping. I nonchalantly took out my cell phone and dialed Nick. The phone rang a few times and I finally heard, "Hello?"
"Hey, Nick," I replied, keeping my eye on Monroe. "Umm, you know that guy, Monroe Monroe? You, umm, tackled him an accused him of kidnapping a little girl?"
"Yeah, why?" he replied, sounding fairly preoccupied.
"Well, he's in your aunt's room, pacing around like a lunatic," I told him, watching the procession with interest.
"Yeah, I know," he replied nonchalantly. "I asked him to watch her. Is anything wrong?"
"No, they're both fine," I replied with a shrug. "I was just making sure that he wasn't, like, here to get his revenge on you by killing your aunt."
"Umm, if he does look like he's going to kill her, I'd appreciate you stopping, but I trust him."
"Alright. Bye, Nick," I said with a shake of my head. I got up and went into Marie's room. "Hi."
Monroe jumped and turned around to look at me. "It's not what it looks like," he said hastily.
"I already talked to Nick," I told him, my hands up as to indicate my unwillingness to fight. "Tell me," I started, sitting down in the chair in the corner of the room, "how does one go about befriending the man who tries to arrest him?"
His brows furrowed. "It's complicated, okay?"
"Oh, I'm sure," I said with my arms crossed. "It just seems weird to me. I guess that's why Nick's the detective, though. His profiling skills obviously see something about this that isn't weird."
"I guess so," he replied. What a sassy bastard.
A head popped in the room and said, "Beyla?"
"Ewan," I responded, springing up from my seat.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked, looking at the comatose woman and unfamiliar man.
"Just checking on Nick's aunt; I know he's been really worried about her. I wanted to make sure she was okay," I lied. The whole "Nick/Monroe" thing was too much to explain, so I left it out.
"Alright," he answered with a shrug. Ushering me out of the room, he said, "Let's go; I'm starving."
"Bye," I said, giving Monroe one last meaningful glance so that he wouldn't do anything stupid. He nodded awkwardly.

I was making a charcoal portrait of my brother Ezhno, when the doorbell rang. I wiped my sooty hands on my already blackening apron. I carefully opened the door, trying to get as little charcoal on it as possible. To my surprise, Monroe was standing on my stoop. "What are you doing here and how do you know where I live?" I asked a bit more aggressively than I'd meant to.
"Hey, I would have preferred not coming," he replied. "Nick was busy, though, so he gave me your address." He held out my phone. "You left it at the hospital."
I sighed and took it back. "Thank you," I said. I sighed in defeat. "Come on in. Do you want a beer?"
His brows furrowed. "What?"
"As the homeowner, I'm obligated to offer you a drink," I explained, opening the door wide enough for Monroe to come in.
He shrugged and entered. "Thanks."
"Kitchen is that way," I said, pointing down the hall. We walked back and Monroe sat down at the island. He looked around as I washed the charcoal off of my hands. His eyes fell on Ezhno's portrait.
"You're an artist?" he said with surprise.
"Yep," I replied as I dried my hands on a dishtowel. I walked over to the fridge. "That's going to be my brother's birthday present. Which one do you want?" I held up two different bottles of beer. He pointed to one and I opened them both up.
"Thanks," he said, taking a swig.
"No problem," I replied, leaning up against the island. I continued to look at my work in progress. "He's always talking about how he loves my art so I figured I'd make him a portrait. I always loved that picture of him," I rambled, motioning to my reference picture.
"I'm impressed. I can see the likeness," he commended.
"Thanks. Maybe someday I'll draw you," I said with a laugh.
"Really?"
"No." I laughed more and he scoffed, shaking his head. "So, Monroe, tell me about yourself. What do you do, other than not abducting little girls, aunt-sitting, and returning lost phones?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm a clock-maker. I make clocks and I do Pilates," he admitted and I laughed more.
"I don't think I could have called that," I replied, still chuckling.
"And a forensic scientist/artist is normal?" he rebutted.
"Speaking of," I started, leaning toward him. "You look like you've been punched in the face. Tell me, how often does a Pilate-ing clock-maker get into fist fights?"
He jerked his head away from my curious fingers. "I didn't get into a fight," he lied.
"I hope you at least kicked some ass after you got socked," I said, bringing my face closer still to him.
"Why don't you look at your own face?" he suggested sassily.
"What's that supposed to mea- oh shit!" I jumped up and ran into the bathroom. Charcoal was all over my face. "Why the fuck wouldn't you tell me that before?" I called into the other room.
"I figured you knew," he called back. I heard him get up and he came to stand in the bathroom doorway. "It was a lot of charcoal."
"Shut up," I replied, scrubbing my face. "Why does Nick even keep you around?"
"I was just about to ask you the same question," he replied.
I scoffed. "Why did you even accept my offer? It was totally in your rights to refuse the beverage obligation."
"I honestly don't know."
"Well, you're free to leave any time."
"Maybe I'll stay, just because it's bothering you so much."
I wiped my face off aggressively. Something about this guy was really getting under my skin. "You do know that I know police officers, right?"
That was all I needed. "I'm leaving – calm down." He took his newly emptied bottle of beer and walked himself to the door. "Thanks for the beer, Beyla."
"Get out of here, Monroe," I called from the hallway. He waved sarcastically and walked out the door. What the Hell, man, I thought to myself. I shook my head and returned to the kitchen, ready to resume my portrait. Then I saw it; Monroe's phone rested on my counter. Just as I realized it, I heard a car pull out of my driveway. Shit.