Casey had insisted that Randin go home, after several hours of him sitting at her side, making sure, and doubly sure, that her pain was well managed, that she was going to be alright, that nothing like that was ever going to happen under his watch again. The surgeons had taken her to emergency surgery the moment she was rolled into the emergency room, removing the biofoam and stitching up her leg and shoulder, before hooking her up to a PCA pump and rolling her back to the recovery room.
Now she sat on a standard medical-surgical unit, waking up from the last drowsy dose of pain medication, and staring at the sterilized white ceiling as the sound of a heart monitor, and an IV pump beeped musically from somewhere off to her left. Randin was gone, his plastic chair vacated, and her bed-side table had a vase of flowers sitting on top, the blooms a vibrant collection of shades of red and pink. The woman smiled, clearly exhausted, but happy to be alive.
What a fluke, she thought to herself, glancing down at her heavily bandaged shoulder. It would be a while before she'd be back to top form, but she could manage the wait. It would be nice to just have a small break, even if it meant sick leave.
A nurse in pressed scrubs the color of a robin's egg came in to inquire after her pain. Casey merely shook her head, smiling the whole time, and relaxed into her pillow as the woman left. Here, they knew her as Detective Bethany Foster.
Casey Delancy was a name only Randin knew her by, and for good reason.