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speak with his doctors, then?” I pleaded.
    Her face softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, but that’s not allowed either.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and continued in a hushed voice. “We’ve had a lot of reporters asking questions.”
    “I understand, but could you at least tell me how he’s doing?” I asked, giving it one more shot.
    “All I can say is, at this time he’s in critical but stable condition.” She sounded as if she were delivering a canned statement.
    My forehead wrinkled. “That’s it?”
    “I’m sorry,” she answered with a nod.
    Defeated, I spun on my heel and walked out the doors into the bright sunshine. Hoisting my shoulder strap higher, I paused and shoved my hands in my pocket. Dang, dang, dang! I’d really wanted to see Stephen for myself, but the guardians at the gate weren’t going to let me. With the toe of my loafer, I nudged a small piece of gravel and pondered my next move. You don’t have one, Jensen. Pursing my lips, I blew out a long breath and took a half step forward.
    “Wait,” someone called from behind me.
    Turning, I saw a man dressed in a tan suit, with navy shirt and striped tie, running down the sidewalk toward me.
    “Did you say you’re a friend of Stephen Larsen’s?” he asked.
    Caught off-guard, I stuttered, “Yes.”
    The man came closer. “Did I hear you say you’re Ophelia Jensen?”
    Suspicious now, I eyed him cautiously. “Yes.”
    “Weren’t you with him during the shooting?”
    I shaded my eyes against the bright sun and looked over the man’s shoulder. Right behind him stood a technician holding a video camera.
    Crap, a reporter!
    I stepped to the side in an effort to go around him. “No comment.”
    His steps mirrored mine and he blocked me. “What do you think happened? Was it an accident or attempted murder?”
    “No comment,” I replied, trying again to dodge him.
    “Did Larsen say anything at the time of the shooting?”
    His question stopped me, and I clutched my purse containing Stephen’s date book tightly to my side as a light from the camera hit me in the eyes.
    “Ah, ah, no,” I stammered.
    The reporter moved in and stuck a mike in my face. “How long have you known Larsen? What was he doing in Iowa?” he asked, firing off the questions.
    “That’s enough,” a rough voice boomed from next to me as a hand grabbed my arm and began hustling me back toward the hospital.
    “She said ‘no comment,’” Bill called back to the reporter.
    Once inside the building, he marched me past the woman at the desk. With a surprised look on her face, she watched Bill escort me down a hallway.
    “I figured you’d show up this morning,” he muttered as we made a left at the end of the hall.
    “They won’t let me see Stephen,” I said, rushing to keep my steps even with Bill’s. “The lady at the desk said he’s critical but stable.”
    I felt Bill’s hand on my arm tense.
    “The bullet hit Larsen in the heart—”
    My steps faltered. “The heart? How did he—”
    “Live?” Bill finished the sentence for me. “The bullet didn’t rip the heart, but acted like a plug and prevented him from bleeding to death.” With a tug, we continued down the hallway.
    “The surgeon repaired the hole, but during the surgery, Larsen aspirated fluid into his lungs, so now they’re worried about pneumonia.”
    “Are you going to let me see him?” I asked.
    His eyes darted my way. “You got two minutes, then you’re going to answer some questions.”
    Oh, goody.
    With a punch of his meaty hand, Bill hit the large button next to a double door and it whished open. Feelings of pain and suffering rushed out at me. I pulled back.
    Dang—I’d been so focused on seeing Stephen that I hadn’t thought about what it would be like visiting an intensive care unit. I hadn’t taken the time to guard my senses, and they were now on full alert.
    Bill gave me a puzzled look, but I ignored him and shut my eyes. Lowering my head,