Free Things You Won't Say by Sarah Pekkanen Page B

tossing a baseball to his kid at the park on a Saturday morning. Christie didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this sandy-haired, smiling guy with freckles on his nose.
    “Say hello to your first client,” Elroy said.

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    Chapter Four
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    RITCHIE’S ROOM IN THE rehab facility wasn’t as intimidating as Jamie had expected. She’d thought it would be white and sterile, with sharp edges and high-tech machines—similar to the hospital room where she’d visited him—but it seemed almost homey. This was a space for patients who were here for the long haul, she thought. There were curtains on the window, and family pictures atop the nightstand.
    Ritchie was propped up by pillows in bed. He was holding one of those squishy stress balls and seemed to be struggling to make a fist around it.
    Jamie paused in the doorway, tears rushing into her eyes, memories rushing into her mind: Ritchie racing around his backyard on the Fourth of July, holding a silver sparkler and being chased by all the kids; Ritchie putting his arm around Sandy and kissing the top of her head as she leaned into him one weekend when they’d all gone to the beach together; Ritchie and Mike, side by side, standing straight and proud as they received an official commendation for apprehending an armed robbery suspect.
    “How are you, handsome?” Jamie asked. She walked over to Ritchie and kissed his cheek. Only his brown eyes were thesame. His face was still swollen, and a worm-like scar curved around his right ear, cutting into his skin. His hair had been shaved for surgery and hadn’t completely grown back in yet. He’d lost weight, too.
    “Good,” Ritchie said.
    “Old buddy,” Mike said, coming closer and giving his partner a fist bump. “We gotta bust you out of here!”
    “The doctor . . . said . . . another few months,” Ritchie said, his cadence much slower than usual, as if he were speaking a foreign language and first needed to translate the words in his head.
    Another few months, Jamie thought. But then there would be outpatient physical and speech therapy. And after that? Nothing was clear. Brain injuries were notoriously complicated, and it was hard to predict if Ritchie would ever be able to return to the force. Sandy had talked about it at the pool, and Jamie had been glad she couldn’t see her friend’s eyes behind her dark sunglasses. She knew they’d look shattered.
    “Yeah, but you like a challenge,” Mike was saying. “I’ll give you two weeks before they’re kicking you out.”
    Ritchie smiled but didn’t say anything.
    There was a small silence.
    “I saw Sandy and the kids the other day,” Jamie said, her voice too bright. “We all went to the pool. Daisy is such a terrific swimmer! She’s a little fish.”
    “Yeah,” Ritchie said. He frowned. “I was working with her . . . Last month? No, maybe last summer . . . I can’t remember . . .”
    “Well, we need you to give our kids swimming lessons!” Jamie said quickly. “Eloise is still afraid to put her face in the water.”
    “You need anything?” Mike asked. “Kale chips, maybe?”
    Ritchie smiled and started to shake his head, but he immediately stilled the motion. Jamie wondered if the slight movement hurt.
    “Did they give you . . . a new partner yet?” Ritchie asked.
    “First of all, he isn’t my partner,” Mike said. “He’s a stand-in until the real thing comes back. And he’s a moron. My standards aren’t all that high, given what I put up with for the past decade, but even I can’t deal with the guy.”
    “You’re used . . . to per-perfection,” Ritchie said.
    Jamie turned as an orderly came into the room, carrying a food tray. He set it on the edge of Ritchie’s bed, checked the level of water in the giant plastic cup on Ritchie’s nightstand, and exited quietly.
    “Want some . . . pudding?” Ritchie asked Mike. “It’s awful. That’s why . . . I offered.”
    “Sounds tempting,”