I pause. This is my stop, a chance to hop off this lie before it’s too late. “Of course, I know him.” I signal with my hand to his lifeless body. “It’s Warner Landers of Landers Ventures.”
The medic blinks at me, then narrows his eyes. “Okay, but you don’t know his birthday?”
“We had a business relationship, so we hadn’t gotten to birthdays.” I glance down at his wedding ring finger. No ring. No tan lines. No marks left behind by someone who was sneaking around without one. “He’s not married.”
“No one is accusing you of anything. We’re trying to get as much information on him as we can for the file.”
He looks at his e-pad and starts jotting down some notes. It’s the way he peeks up at me like he’s now concerned for Warner’s safety,from me, that has me shifting in my seat, and looking toward the light, a.k.a. the two windows at the back, and ask, “Are we almost there?”
“Yes,” he replies. “What’s your name?”
I’m not falling into that trap. No way can I give my real name. If Warner finds out I was here, that deal is as good as signed. But my brain is blank of names except for some unknown reason “Delaney Landers” rolls off the tip of my tongue and onto the body of the man passed out between us. Or was he knocked unconscious?What am I doing?Holy hell, I need to get out of here.
“You have the same last name as Mr. Landers but don’t know his birthday?”
“Coincidence.”
“I should say so,” he mutters under his breath just as the ambulance comes to a hard stop. He’s out of his seat and helping to push the doors open. The chaos of the moment leaves me there to climb out last and follow them inside.
A nurse comes up beside me and says, “We’re taking him back to be examined. A doctor will come out to discuss if surgery is needed and the next steps.” She guides me into a glass box full of chairs, old TVs mounted on the walls, and a few others scattered about. “You can wait here for more information regarding your husband.”
“Okay—wait, what? He’s not my . . .” The nurse has already disappeared down the hall. I stand there, unsure of what to do. Leaving would be best. I have no business being here in the first place. But now he’s all alone with his friend waiting at a bar for him to arrive somewhere in the financial district.
I flop into a chair, knowing I can’t leave him like this. Warner Landers is a jerk, but he’s mine to deal with until his family or friend comes to claim him. I drop my head into my hands. The image of him getting hit plays over in my head, causing me to open my eyes and sit upright. Is this karma getting her dues?
What a mess.
But more so, I feel awful that I’m the one who is here for him when someone who matters could be instead. I should try to contact someone in his life. But how?
An idea comes to mind, giving me an inkling of hope. I pull my phone out of the purse situated on my hip and call his office. “Landers Ventures.”
Looking around, I keep my voice low so no one else in the waiting room can hear, “Hi, Mr. Landers’s office, please.”
“He’s not available. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Is there anyone I can speak to?” I hate the panic in my voice. Taking a quick breath, I then whisper, “Please.”
“Unfortunately, they’re not available. I can send you to his assistant’s voicemail. She’ll forward your message to him.”
I really don’t think telling the receptionist I got her boss killed is a good idea. “I’ll call back. Thank you.” I hang up and search for his name online. Maybe I’ll find his parents or a sibling, or a girlfriend. I don’t care who, as long as I get someone who cares about him here to the hospital.
“Mrs. Landers?”
I scroll the screen, hoping to find one person. That’s all I need. Come on. There must be someone he's close to, but perhaps he’s only close to his friend on the elevator. I can’t say I’d be surprised. He’s intolerable.
And then I land on — “Mrs. Landers.” My shoulder is touched, startling me and causing me to look up. A nurse smiles at me, but it’s full of sympathy and not reassurance. “We’re still checking for injuries to his head, but your husband will need his arm reset and to stay overnight for observation. We’re going to run a few more tests to make sure we didn’t miss any internal injuries and reexamine his head around the cut he sustained. It may not sound like it, but overall, he’s very lucky.”
I stand, setting my phone on the chair I abandoned. “What is the surgery for?”
“His right arm is broken. We’ll discharge him with instructions on how to care for it. No broken ribs, surprisingly. Though I suspect he’ll be sore for the next few days, possibly up to a week. But again, we’ll send him home with instructions when he leaves.”
I sit there blinking at her as I absorb the information like I’ll need it later. This is the out I’ve needed. I’m not his wife. I’m not his girlfriend or friend, or family or anyone familiar with him in life. I’m just a girl who came to beg him not to do a dirty deed to my family. But for some reason, those words stay glued to the roof of my mouth and not a word is uttered.
She says, “Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
There’s that smile that makes me feel like I have a stake in his life. She feels sorry for me. I hate when people feel that way, but I also can’t walk away and leave him. Even if he is an asshole in real life.
