I need a mirror. I need a nurse. Stat.
I survey my surroundings without moving too much. The walls are painted with soft pastel colors, serene blues and grays. Someone put effort into designing this room. It looks like a Pinterest board. Flower-packed vases crowd the bedside tables, partially blocking the expansive window view. I can just about make out the Quinn & Wolfe building in the distance. At least that’s familiar.
Oh God, I need to know what’s going on. How did I end up here from my bed?
“Hello?” I croak, peering at the open doorway. “Helllloooo?”
Nothing.
There’s a call button by the bed. I fumble to press it, the IV line dragging at my skin. “Hell-ooo?”
A nurse breezes in. “Lucy.” He flashes me a bright smile as he nears the bed. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“Confused.” I try to haul myself up against the pillows, wincing as my head pulses. “What happened? Why am I here?”
His smile slips for a second, but he plasters it back on quickly. “You can’t recall how you ended up here?”
I shake my head weakly.
“You’ve got a concussion, honey. Don’t worry, it’s normal to feel disoriented, especially after waking up. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last few days since your accident.”
I gape at him. “My accident?”
“You slipped down a set of stairs at the Platinum Plaza Hotel. Hit your head pretty bad,” he says, searching my face for any spark of recollection.
The Platinum Plaza Hotel? That’s one of the Quinn & Wolfe hotels in SoHo. What the hell is this guy talking about? Did I sleepwalk out of my bed, take a swan dive out the window, and roll ten miles downtown or something?
My brows scrunch up, struggling to make sense of it all. “No, there’s been a mistake.”
Oh my God, this explains it. They’ve mixed up my identity. It’s a chart switch-up.
I give the room another once-over, estimating what this suite would set me back at one of the Quinn & Wolfe hotels. It’s enormous, and I’ve never seen a plush four-seater sofa in a hospital room before.
I’m screwed. I can’t afford this.
“The accident must have happened at my apartment in Washington Heights. Maybe the chart is wrong?”
His brows lift, but he stays silent.
“What hospital is this?” I ask, feeling the panic bubble up again as he checks the IV in my arm.
“Royal Heights Hospital on Seventh.”
Christ, it’s a celebrity hospital.
He smiles. “You’re in the best hands in New York.”
And the most expensive hands. Hope my work insurance covers it.
His eyes shift to the chart clipped next to my bed. “Yup. You were admitted three nights ago following an accident at the Plaza.”
“That makes no sense. That’s all the way downtown.”
He squints at the clipboard. “Lucy Walsh from East Hanover, twenty-seven years old.”
“That’s me… Except for the age part, I’m twenty-six. I don’t turn twenty-seven until the summer.” I tell him my birthday.
He stares at me as if I’m an idiot. “So you’re twenty-seven.”
