Shane was sitting off to the side, some inane magazine or other open on his lap from earlier, when he'd been pretending to read it. Now he was watching a pair of policemen escort a bruised, bleeding man toward the desk, and he was so engrossed in the sight that it took him a long moment to notice the blonde head bobbing in his peripheral vision.
He turned his head, and there was Rosalie, looking still the worse for wear, but better--up and about, at least. Ella still looked nervous, and they both seemed keyed up and ready to leave. He set the magazine aside and walked over to them, step a practiced kind of casual. He edged up against them and started walking out, assuming they'd follow. That had been one fast trip to the E.R. Either Rosalie had breezed through the paperwork and police report in record time, or they were getting out while they still could.
"Feeling better?" he asked her, stepping through the sliding doors into the icy air outside. He hadn't brought a coat with him when he ran up to 905, but the cold didn't bother him much.