Finally, after a myriad of tests and questions, Dad settles beside me. “You gave everyone quite the scare.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember what happened. Maybe I inhaled something?” My vision lands on the tiled hospital ceiling. Exhaling, I feel the emptiness in my chest, and the reassurance from before is gone. What if Adrial was a gas leak, a bump on the head?
“I told you to be smart,” he says.
“I was smart.” Or I tried to be.
His jaw tightens. “Sometimes I wish you were still a child and I could stop you from taking risks. But you’re not, and you do. So whatever…happened,I hope it was worth it. You’re spending way too much time at that museum. Maybe it’s time you quit, support your job search in a new way.”
“Maybe,” I offer. “I’m starting to like it there.”
He sighs. “While you were in a coma, there was a funeral for Beck. His son was noticeably absent. The rumor is that he ran away. But all of his belongings are still at home and no one can seem to get a hold of him.”
My lips flatten.
“Do you know anything, Summer?”
I picture John’s burnt body, mangled as it was, and I wonder why no one discovered it. Someone would’ve by now if it had remained in the alleyway. If worms hadn’t taken it. I shake my head, uncertain of what to say. “I don’t know anything.”
Dad nods and allows the nurse closer. Dr. Taylor joins him outside, and quietly the two men discuss me.
I lose track of time as I’m inspected, poked, prodded, and scanned. Plans are made for my recovery. I meet with a dietitian, show I can swallow, and am allowed to consume a few bland bites of food. After I prove I can stand and hobble to the bathroom, my muscles more sore than atrophied, my catheter is removed.
In the bathroom, I use the rare moment of privacy to look under the hospital gown. My brands are gone, leaving no mark they were ever there. The uneasy sight amplifies my uncertainty—what was real, I wonder.
I learn that Ginny is still at the museum. Dad stops by to care for her because she refuses to leave the shop, running off and hiding when he tries to pick her up. He says the place is still a wreck from the earthquake, and lowering his voice, he adds there is dried blood, though he doesn’t ask whose it is.
Two cops arrive by midafternoon and question me. I offer them vague answers when I know they’re hoping for more. Carol and I are the last people to see John, and they know I followed him down the alleyway. They accept my claim that I entered the back door of the museum and must have fallen unconscious shortly after. It seems a miracle nobody asked for a warrant to the museum, to see the dried blood Dad claims to have seen. Suspecting more from Hopkins than before, I can’t be convinced that supernatural powers weren’t involved.
The whole process drains my strength, and despite the flurry of activity around me and the constant shift of visitors, I drift off to sleep.
Later, I stir to the sound of the door shutting. At long last, I’m alone, the window showing a dusky sky. It’s late evening.
Sitting up, my heart races, expecting Zuriel to appear at the window.
I didn’t dream of him.
My hands wander, instinctively covering where my brands used to be, except I sense nothing, and my heart sinks.
Minutes pass, and still, no Zuriel.
I’m growing agitated, alert, questioning everything. The only thing I know for certain is that John is missing and his dad is dead, but was that caused by a demon?
Has everything been my imagination?
I need to find Zuriel.
I detach the feeding tube and rummage around the duffle bag my parents packed, finding sweatpants, a T-shirt, sneakers, and a hoodie. Quickly dressing, I’m as quiet as possible. My purse still has my keys.
Sneaking out of the hospital is easy—it helps that I know it well. I dodge past the nurse's station and down the back staircase, leaving through an unarmed door at floor level. Stepping outside, I suck in a breath of fresh fall air and look to the sky, still hopeful Zuriel might appear. There isn’t even a bat. It’s cold and getting colder. I don’t hesitate, running to the bike racks and finding one that isn’t locked up.
It’s a couple of miles to the museum, and with my adrenaline surging, it passes in a blur. Turning the pedals, I cycle forward. I need to see him. I need to know.
By the time I reach the front door, my legs are rubbery and are about to give way. I stumble forward, unlock the door and rush inside.
He’s here.
The museum is a wreck of toppled bookshelves and scattered souvenirs, but he’s behind the front desk like he’s always been.
