by Ella James
She shoots a menacing look over her shoulder. “It means you’ll get your head bit off.”
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a hospital or nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of slender metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can’t be here. It was bad enough at his last place, but at least it had luxury trappings to blunt the horror. This looks like exactly what it is.
Olive stops before a metal door and nods at it. “Better hurry.”
I push through the door without taking time to calm myself, and the sight of a stained blue curtain dividing the room shocks me. There’s barely enough space for a hospital bed between the curtain and the wall, and as my eyes move over the bed’s metal rails, I know it can’t be Cross because this patient is lying flat on his back with his—or her—head wrapped in gauze, and he or she is intubated. The breathing machine looming beside the bed makes a noise that brings back memories of a childhood full of ICUs.
I’m headed for the curtain, hoping against hope that Cross will be sitting up in his bed, when the curtain parts and a freckle-faced nurse appears. She’s frowning like she’s confused, and her shirt is tugged halfway over her head, exposing a lacy, black bra.
My heart leaps in elation. Cross...you wicked thing.
Then I smell the vomit. The nurse is holding a garbage bag, I realize. I quickly notice that the pale pink scrubs shirt she’s pulling off is flecked with yucky stuff. Did Cross barf on her?
I frown as she pushes down the stained shirt.
“What happened?”
“Mr. Russell, next door.” She frowns, and I realize she’s holding a clean shirt in her left hand. “What are you doing in here? You the new hire here to audit?”
I nod behind her. “I’m here to see my friend, Cross Carlson.”
Her face scrunches, unreadable. “Oh.”
I try to see past her, but she’s blocking my view.
“Hun, this is the college professor.” She leans her head back. “Dr. Dottswold.”
I look from left to right. “So wait, this isn’t Cross’s room?”
“He’s right behind you.”
My chest winds tight as I whirl to face the bed. I can’t wait to tell Miss Black Bra she’s wrong.
That person who is obviously on life support is—
Oh fuck no.
A cry rises in my throat, and there it dies. It’s like a giant is stepping on my sternum as I whirl on Black Bra, finding the curtain in place. I can hear a rustling sound as she changes behind it. I don’t care. I snatch it open, watching as her face twists in shock.
“What the hell happened?”
I can tell by the way her eyes widen that she’s clueless, even before she presses her mouth into a line and says, “I don’t know, ma’am. You know, it’s a Saturday and we don’t—”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “I don’t care what day of the week it is, I want to know what happened to him.” My voice is raised, almost to a yell. “If you can’t tell me what happened, find me someone who can.”
She’s looking at me like she thinks I’ve lost my mind, but I don’t care. “How do you know nothing? Isn’t he a patient of yours? Just recently he was awake and talking!”
The nurse scowls at me. “I can’t share details with you. You’re not family. You’re not supposed to be—”
I whip out my phony ID, the one that says Elizabeth Carlson, and shove it in her face. Her eyes harden, and she practically spits, “He had a bleed.”
“He had a what?”
She nods, folding her arms. “He had a brain bleed during the transport over. He had a stroke.” A small sigh escapes her lips, and she gives me a tired look. “I don’t know much about it because I wasn’t here. They said he might have been experiencing some pain.”
“That caused a stroke? How the hell does that happen? Like, his blood pressure went up really high or something?”
The nurse is moving closer to the door and I am moving with her, fully prepared to block her way if she tries to leave without giving me the long explanation.
“I don’t know ma’am.” She shrugs. “I’m not the one in charge. The doctors are.” Her hand is on the door.
“What’s he been doing today? Are you weaning him off the ventilator?”
“No. He needs it.”
“I don’t understand how that can be. Where is his doctor? Has he shown any signs of being okay?”
She blinks. “I don’t know. We can’t sit in here with them all day.”
I know I promised to be in and out, but now that I’ve seen Cross, I just can’t do that. “What nurse is watching him this shift?”
She’s defensive now. “I am.”
Obviously. I swallow, putting my hand on Cross’s bed railing. Suddenly I’m feeling faint. I glance at Cross. He looks so pale and...dead. He looks dead. Helplessness floods me, and I want to scream, but I can barely whisper. “So he’s just...lying here?”
It’s a stupid thing to say, but I’m fighting back tears.
“That’s what they do mostly.”
My blood boils. Did this woman go to nursing school? There are ways that you can tell if someone’s going to be okay. He had some kind of minor stroke, apparently, but he’s going to be okay. If this was serious, someone would have told me.
“He’s been getting N-therapy. He opened his eyes and talked to me the other day.” Tears fill my eyes, and I do my best to blink them back as her frown deepens. “He’s not in a vegetative state. He’s responded to stimuli, just this week. He’s doing the same therapy here, like N-therapy, right? You have something similar?”
I look at the guy in the bed, still wide-shouldered, still handsome, even with his pale face and the tube taped to his mouth.
The nurse dips her head again, and when she raises it, I can see pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I don’t know about him yet.” She shifts the bag, holding her soiled shirt, from one hand to the other, looking contrite. “Why don’t you stay here a minute. Talk to him. You can come back Monday, when hours are open again.”
“I can’t come Sunday?”
She shakes her head. “Tomorrow we’re closed for therapy.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a physical therapist come one day a week.”
“Only one time a week?”
The nurse shrugs. “I have to go but I’ll be watching on a monitor.” She points to something over my head, and I struggle with the urge to grab her arm and hold her until she tells me something I want to hear.
Somehow, I force myself to turn around and face Cross’s bed. I step over to it, starting to quietly cry as I scan the machines, analyzing the numbers I came to know so well during the first few weeks after the accident.
I check his blood pressure—136/95—and then his pulse—102. The ventilator is taking 24 breaths per minute for him, which means she’s right—he needs it. I tell myself they gave him sedatives, so his body can rest and recover.
I stretch out my arm to touch his face, vowing to do something to make this situation better. As I do, the door behind me opens and I turn.
Standing in the doorway is a woman in pale pink scrubs with her hair pulled into a tight French braid. She’s shorter than I am, but everything about her exudes power.
“You must be Pushy.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Frankie. And I know this SOB doesn’t have a sister.”
I balk. “Did you just call him a son of a bitch?”
She shrugs. “Governor’s son, hurt himself riding a motorcycle drunk. I could call him worse things, but I’m sorry all the same. You need to get off my floor. Visiting is closed today.”
I shake my head. “Not until you tell me what happened.”
“I can’t do that. What I can do is promise that if you don’t leave now, I’ll be sure yo
u see the inside of a jail cell.”
I put my hand over my chest. My heart’s trying to burst through my ribs.
“I’ll leave,” I rasp, “but I have one question.”
She presses her lips together like a disapproving teacher.
“Do you have N-therapy?” I sound composed, and Frankie’s expression loosens a little as her mouth turns down.
“N-therapy?” She looks like she’s never heard of it. Of course she hasn’t.
“They call it N-therapy. I don’t remember the full name. It stimulates the brain and makes them want to wake up.”
“Neurostimulation?” She shakes her head, still brisk but not quite as stern. “I know it helps, but we can’t afford to purchase those machines. This is a county treatment facility. Just the basics.”
She steps closer, her hand closing around my elbow. “I’m sorry, but it’s time for you to go.”
8
Elizabeth
IT TAKES ME almost seven hours to drive home to Napa, and the whole time, I feel like I’m in a trance. Dusk has come, chilly and blue, by the time I park my car in the cul-de-sac at the end of Brison Way and walk half a block to the gray stone monstrosity behind the pointy, black iron gates. Surprisingly, the gates are open, so I walk down the long drive and up the pale staircase Cross jumped off so many times when we were kids.
I hold my fist over the door, wanting to knock with all my might, but at the last second, I decide to ring the bell instead. Seconds pass before one of the massive doors swings open and I find myself staring into the eyes of an unfamiliar, gray-haired housekeeper.
I stand up a little straighter and pretend I’m wearing a designer business suit. “I’m here to talk to Derinda Carlson.”
The housekeeper frowns at me, then puckers her lips and shakes her head. “Mrs. Carlson is unavailable.”
I press my lips tightly together. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving here without speaking to Cross’s mother. “Look, ma’am, I’m a family friend.” I nod behind me. “I recognize her BMW and I know she’s here this weekend. Tell her it’s one of Cross’s friends. I have something of his.”
I don’t, of course, but I’m hoping curiosity will draw Derinda to the door. I haven’t seen much of her since I left for college, but I remember she used to be a vibrant, funny woman—if a little cowed by her powerful husband.
I spend the few minutes I’m kept waiting sending out pleas to the universe. Please let her come to the door. Please help Cross.
I’m almost surprised when the door opens again and she’s standing there in front of me. When we were in high school, Derinda Carlson was elegant and well-dressed, with vibrant blue eyes and short, stylish blonde hair. I remember her sorting through papers as she drew up house plans, but she would always make sure the housekeepers kept Cross, Suri, and I well-fed, and the few times she greeted me upon arrival, she was always kind and smiling.
This woman is much different. Still dressed stylishly in an ice blue pant suit, Derinda has definitely aged. I can tell because her face looks ridiculously smooth, and the areas around her mouth and eyebrows don’t move much as she looks me up and down. Her pale blonde hair, swept into a casual up-do, bobs a little as her eyes travel from my moccasins to my hair, which is probably a mess.
Her arms are hanging at her sides, but I notice her hands are splayed and stiff, even as she bends her mouth into a sour-lemon smile and nods slightly at me. “Elizabeth, how can I help you?”
Tears flood my eyes as I think about Cross, with a tube down his throat and all that gauze around his head. My voice cracks as I struggle not to sob. “Why is he in that awful place?”
She frowns, and lines appear—well-worn tracks she can’t completely hide. “We can’t insure him anymore. Drake is paid by the taxpayers these days, darling.”
My face says I’m not buying it, and Derinda’s frown deepens. “I really don’t need to justify anything to you, but do you have any idea how much the facility he was in cost us?”
“No.”
“Two thousand dollars every night. That was after insurance paid a percentage.”
I blink, stunned that these things matter. “He was waking up! He talked to me.”
She’s shaking her head briskly, like she can’t stand to hear my words. “There’s been no response for months.”
“This was days ago! I told the nurse. It’s probably on the cameras! They were doing that therapy on his brain and it was working. I could tell!”
Derinda shakes her head. “We love our son, Elizabeth. We just simply can’t afford it.”
I want to call her on her bullshit. Governor Carlson was a prominent litigator before he entered politics. Cross’s family is loaded. And they certainly aren’t acting like they love him.
I change the subject. “What happened in the ambulance?”
She opens her mouth, pauses as she fixes me with an even stare. “They’re not sure. He was on so many different medicines...” The corner of her mouth tucks down, like we’re talking about a broken vase.
“He had a stroke,” I snap. “You don’t know why?”
“There are no whys, Elizabeth. Don’t you think I’d be crazy if I sat around asking why any of this happened? Maybe you can tell me. You were there that night.”
I clench my jaw. I want so much—so much—to tell her how their estrangement impacted Cross. How, after his father banished him, he’d lost weight and started drinking more. How he spent most of the time he wasn’t working at my Mom’s house all alone.
My eyes simmer with angry tears. “They said he had the stroke because he was in pain. That sounds like someone’s fault.”
Her mouth draws up like a rotten fruit. “They shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”
I ignore her. “He was waking up. Why did you move him to a place like this one? He was doing well.”
“He has no idea where he is, and he isn’t doing anything, Elizabeth. I know it hurts, but it’s time to be realistic. Cross is gone, and he is never coming back.”
I look right at her nose and think of punching it. Instead I pull a long breath in through my nose. Let it out. And try not to yell when I say, “I am telling you, he talked to me the other day. Just ask Nanette or anyone who was there. I don’t get why you don’t seem to know this!”
Derinda’s face softens. “You love him, so you want him to get better. I love him, too, but palliative care is the best we can do for him now. We must also be prepared for his condition to…deteriorate.”
My heart feels like it stops. “They said that?”
“It’s too soon to tell, but...”
“Did someone say not to expect anything? That he won’t wake up?”
She shakes her head. “But with what happened…”
“With what happened, you’re just giving up? Sending him somewhere that’s a day’s drive away? That place in L.A. is not the best. Not even close! He won’t get well in that hellhole!”
Her eyes go cold, and I can tell I’ve crossed a line. “You have no idea what’s best for him—”
“I think I’m the only one who cares what’s best for him!” I whirl around and dash down the driveway before she has a chance to slam the door.
I DRIVE TO a park and spend the next half-hour crying again, reliving every detail of that night. It doesn’t help. There’s one detail I can’t reason away, I can’t forget, I can’t ignore, and that’s this: He was upset—because of me—when he left. It doesn’t matter that he had upset me, too. I hurt Cross bad enough to make him climb onto his bike half-drunk, and even if it was his choice, even if he made the wrong one, I was the precipitating event. I was the catalyst. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get over it.
9
Hunter
PRISCILLA IS HAVING Libby followed. That means when I follow Libby, I have to be discreet. The last thing I need is Priscilla knowing that I know what she’s doing. It would ruin everything. And I’m beginning to think there’s really something here.
/> According to my guy, Priscilla has visited Michael Lockwood twice in the last week. The rumor was she’d fired him in a fit of rage—no one knew what over. So why visit? In the meantime, my bank girl found a Swiss account in Michael’s name with more than $2 million. That’s a lot of money for an unemployed video production tech. How does it connect to Sarabelle? I’m not sure, but I have a terrible suspicion.
In the meantime, I’m fucking Priscilla, and when I have a spare moment, watching Libby’s new watchers. Of course, I’m also watching Libby. Like now.
Bright and early on a Sunday morning, I’ve followed her to Napa Valley Involved Rehab, where Cross Carlson enjoyed seven weeks of the best care money can buy before his family moved him to a county dead-end. I watch her walk in with a notebook, see her greeted at the door by a nurse. Half an hour later, I see her fly back out the door and sink into the grass, sobbing into her hands. I have to cross my arms to keep from opening my car door and going to check on her.
Priscilla’s spy doesn’t follow Libby home, but I do. I tell myself it’s out of guilt. If I’d never stopped at Libby’s mother’s home the other day, I wouldn’t have put Libby on Priscilla’s radar. Of course, if I’d never stopped at Libby’s mother’s home, I also wouldn’t have known Priscilla was having me followed. How bizarre is that? She’s fucking me, sure, and maybe she has some twisted thing for me because I rejected her, but having me followed? I smell something fishy, and it has Sarabelle’s name written all over it.
I watch until Libby is in range of Crestwood’s security cameras and the driveway guard. Then I drive a little over half an hour to the vineyard and jerk off to my memories of her. When I’m finished, I call Marchant.
I can’t tell him about Priscilla’s threats, because even March doesn’t know all of my family secrets, but I can tell him I’m fucking her for information. So I do. I come clean, and then I tell him about how edgy she’s seemed lately—I don’t mention the whips.
When I finish, he drops a bomb: “She’s also fucking Josh Smith. You know, LVPD Detective Smith? I’m looking into it.”
