But what if he needs the help?
“J.” Dr. Kenji’s hand covers mine.
I look up at him.
“My intuition is telling me that this is a very dangerous situation. I don’t think you should get involved. Remember, you’re not like other teenagers. Any excitement, any adrenaline rush, any stressful situation could overload your heart.”
“I’m not worried, Dr. Kenji.” My eyes dart to the little drawer where I keep my pills.
“Youshouldbe worried,” Dr. Kenji says forcefully.
My jaw slackens. Dr. Kenji has never spoken to me like that.
He averts his gaze to the chart in his hands. “I’ll let you know the results of your tests when they’re out.”
Goosebumps pop on my skin as I watch him leave.
A whisper of suspicion sprouts inside me. I need to take a short break from Finn and from finding The Kings’ wives and look into Dr. Kenji. He’s the closest to me in this entire hospital, and I’ve always respected his privacy.
But sometimes, keeping your friends close means keeping their secrets even closer.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
FINN
My phone call with J is interrupted by a knock on the door.
I end the call abruptly and call out, “Hayato?”
Last night, Hayato and Ren brought me to Kurosaki’s acreage and escorted me to this room. They told me to wait for my father to call me.
At first, I eyed the large bed, the wooden desk, and the folding wooden door with suspicion, but as the night rolled on, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Figuring that Kurosaki could just as well kill me in my own bed as this one, I decided to take a short, hour-long power nap.
When I woke, Kurosaki still hadn’t summoned me, but Ren and Hayato were right outside the door. They asked if there was anything I needed, so I gave Ren a task to complete before J woke up and planned on using their absence to sneak out.
But it was clear, from the way Hayato followed me to the bathroom and the gazebo, that I couldn’t leave the compound until Kurosaki and I had a talk.
I’m starting to think that my new “protectors” double as my prison guards.
The knock sounds again.
Is Kurosaki finally showing up?
Unsure of what I’m about to face, I open the door and find a short, stout woman. She waddles into the cavernous room, carrying a bundle of clothes in her arms.
“Can I help you?” I arch a brow.
She shoves the clothes at me and speaks in rapid Japanese.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
She points to the clothes and then to me, gesturing that I should take my shirt off.
“No, I’m good.”
She looks at me with eyes narrowed. Her gestures become more insistent, and she pulls at her own shirt, flapping it intently. Then she points at me.
