Her entire body stiffened.
Shit, shouldn’t have said that.
“I don’t accept bribes, Mr. Ambrose.”
Pain shot through my system, drenching me in sweat again. I couldn’t be vertical much longer. My shoulders rolled in defeat. “Please, Edith. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t very important.” Going against all instinct, I let down my walls and begged, “Please. I need to speak with someone. They think—they think I died. I can’t let them continue worrying about me. It isn’t fair.” Hissing through my teeth as a hot wave of discomfort took me hostage, I muttered, “You wouldn’t do that to a loved one, would you? Let them sit at home and fear the worst?”
Her face fell. “No, I guess you’re right.”
Thank God.
Suddenly, she moved back around the desk and grabbed a purple handbag. Rummaging inside, she passed me an older model cell-phone. “Here. Text them now. My shift is almost over. I’ll get you the phone tomorrow when I come back into work.”
It wasn’t ideal, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
My hand shook as I reached for it. “I can’t thank you enough.”
She waved it away. “Don’t mention it.”
The moment I held the phone, I wanted to sprint back to my room. To hear Nila’s voice. To beg for her forgiveness. To know she was okay.
I shoved away pain, holding the gift and the knowledge that I could finally reach out to her.
Hating that I couldn’t steal Edith’s phone and find some privacy, I shuffled away a little and swiped on the old device.
The time blinked on the home screen.
2:00 a.m.
Where are you, Nila?
Are you in bed? Sneaking out to ride Moth to find some peace like I used to do? Is your phone even charged?
Questions and worries exploded in my heart.
Cut had said her life would continue unmolested, but that was before he shot us. Who knew what new rules and madness he’d put in place now we were gone.
If he’s touched her, I’ll make him fucking pay.
My shakes turned savage as I opened a new message. My memory was rusty as I input her number. I hoped to God I got it right. I’d sent hundreds of messages to her but never took the time to imprint her number on my soul.
Please, please let it be right.
Using the keypad, I typed:
From one indebted to another, you’re not forgotten. I love you. I miss you. I only think of you.
I pressed send before I could go overboard. Already, that gave away too much, especially if Cut had confiscated her phone.
Then again, the number was from a stranger. It would look like any other reporter digging for a story or publicity stunt. Even with ourVanity Fairinterview, the dregs of magazines looked to revive a has-been tale by piecingtogether fabricated facts.
That was another issue of recuperating in a hospital with nothing to do. Daytime television was enough to rot anyone’s brain—demented or otherwise.
I didn’t leave my name. I didn’t send another.
But she would know.
She would understand.
