“Will you remember that I came to see you?”
“I don’t remember much of anything anymore.” He looks at me with those cloudy eyes, and for a second I think he might recognize me again. “But I’ll try.”
I’m halfway down the hallway when a nurse in pink scrubs stops me.
“You’re Mr. Christensen’s son, right? I’m Linda.” She glances back toward his room, then lowers her voice. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
My stomach drops. “Is everything okay?”
“He’s fine, medically speaking. But I wanted to let you know that he had a visitor yesterday.” She pulls out a small notepad and flips through pages. “A man in his forties said he was an old friend from Detroit. Spent about an hour with your father.”
The chill from the anonymous text deepens. “Did he give a name?”
“If he did, your father doesn’t remember it. But he’s been talking about this visitor all day. Says the man knew about his son who played hockey.” Linda looks at me seriously. “The thing is, we don’t usually allow unscheduled visits. Families have to approve anyone who’s not on the list.”
“I never approved anyone.”
“That’s what I figured. Security’s been a little lax lately. We have a new girl at the front desk, and she doesn’t always check properly. I was off yesterday and when I came in today, I saw this on the visitor log. I can assure you that it won’t happen again. I’ve already spoken to Security.” She closes the notepad.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course. And Mr. Christensen? Your father may not remember your visits, but they matter. Patients always seem calmer after family time.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and head for the exit.
I make it to the parking lot, rage and guilt clawing at my chest. Ten thousand dollars a month to keep him in a place where strangers can walk in and question him while he’s too confused to protect himself. Ten thousand dollars I don’t have without Morrison’s help.
The drive home is a blur of streetlights and anxiety. Every car behind me could be FBI or syndicate members. The anonymous message burns in my pocket like evidence of how completely fucked I am.
Someone knows about Dad. Someone’s been watching. And if they can reach him there, in the one place that’s supposed to be safe, then nowhere is protected.
An eerie feeling settles over me when I unlock the door to my hotel room. It’s too quiet, too still. I check the locks on the windows and secure the door.
I drop into a chair, pour a glass of whiskey, and stare at my phone. The anonymous text is still there, a reminder that my father’s safety hangs in the balance.
Morrison wants potential targets by tomorrow. Five teammates whose personal struggles I’m supposed to catalog and weaponize, five guys who can be used as bait.
The syndicate wants Tate. They’ve been watching him, waiting for the right moment to make their approach. They know that threatening my father is the fastest way to make sure I cooperate.
And one anonymous text proves everything I’ve done to keep my dad safe has only made him a bigger target.
TWENTY-TWO
tate
Parker has completely avoidedme since that night in the bathroom. He doesn’t speak to me during practice. Hell, he doesn’t even look in my direction. And I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to crack and out me and Zane.
I should be focused on hockey, on proving I deserve my spot back. Instead, I’m in my car outside my parents’ house in Pleasanton, trying to figure out how to get through a family barbecue without unraveling.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat with a text from Zane.
Can’t make it tonight.
I stare at the message, waiting for more but there are no gray dots flashing on the screen. No explanation, no apology, no new time for our secret tryst. Just a flat out rejection.
I’m at my family’s house for a BBQ. Everything okay?
Twenty minutes pass before he responds.
