Olivia is in the hospital:

I snatched the TV remote from the cabinet by the bed and jabbed the “on” button.  The TV slowly warmed into life and I clicked violently through the channels, one right after the other.  I had no idea what I saw in the brief glimpses until I stumbled upon a shot of my apartment building.  I stopped and listened to the anchor woman tell her story.

“— this peaceful picture last night.  But it didn’t stay calm.  At approximately eleven p.m., an unknown group of assailants broke into the bottom floor of this apartment building and attacked the sole occupant, Olivia Bonaparte.”

Brian lunged out of the chair and came to watch, standing beside me.  For such a big man, he moved pretty damn fast.  His musky cologne wafted past me in the breeze of his motion and the heady scent nearly distracted me from the news story.  But then the camera scanned across the outside of the apartment dwelling and then showed an interior shot.  The place was ruined and my coat, which had somehow gotten ripped off my back during the fight, was crumpled on the floor near the end of the couch.  Chunks of my wheat-colored hair littered the floor.  I lifted my hand to my head to be greeted by scabs and thin patches.  Damn!  Blood pools and sprays covered almost everything, but mostly in the area near where I had finally stayed down.  I hoped that was mostly from my back and scalp.

The news woman continued, “Ms. Bonaparte is in Boulder Community Hospital and is expected a full recovery.  Police are conducting an investigation.”  Again, the camera swept the inside of the apartment.  The place was devastated.  It was obvious that a great deal of rage had caused most of the damage.  And now, thanks to the media, the men who had done it knew I was still alive and where they could find me.


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