Sydney’s reporter instincts kick in. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“This morning at breakfast, when you did. Her treatment should’ve ended hours ago. I called Pam Parker, who picked her up. She’s not answering either.”
“And her meds?”
I gesture to the kitchen. “Still in their daily organizer. She never misses a dose, Syd. Not even when she’s having a bad day.”
Understanding dawns on Sydney’s face, her own concerns—whatever they might be—temporarily pushed aside by this more immediate crisis. “Have you called the hospital?”
“First thing. They said she hasn’t been admitted, but you know how that goes. I’m thinking we should just go there, check in person.” I’m already grabbing my keys, my wallet. “The oncology ward first, then emergency if she’s not there.”
Sydney doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t suggest we wait or call around more. She just nods and puts Gus down, saying, “Let’s go,” and for that moment, we’re completely in sync again, partners with a shared mission, the awkwardness from her dinner with Jonah temporarily forgotten.
We slam into my SUV, me behind the wheel, Sydney already punching in numbers on her phone. “I’ll try all the Beaver Bookies members,” she says, then adds, “Although she wasn’t really with them last night, as my mom said.”
Still. I nod gratefully, the knot in my stomach loosening just a fraction.
The drive to Beaver County General takes nine minutes on a good day. We make it in six, my SUV eating up the asphalt as Sydney works her way through Meema’s social circle, each conversation ending with a negative and a promise to call if they hear anything.
“Nothing,” she says as we pull into the hospital parking lot.
I throw the SUV into park in a spot clearly marked “Physicians Only.” Let them tow me.
Sydney unbuckles before I’ve even turned off the engine. “Let’s start at reception, see if they have any record of her.”
The hospital lobby hits me with that antiseptic smell, the one that never fails to tighten my chest with memories of my own stays—too many of them. But I push those thoughts aside, focusing.
The receptionist barely looks up from her computer when we approach, her blue scrubs matching the institutional paint on the walls. “Can I help you?” she says, the question a formality.
“Has a Maisie Kingston checked in today?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “She’s my grandmother, seventy, cancer patient. She’s missing, and we thought—”
“Who are you?” The woman cuts me off.
After Brooks shows her his license and verifies he’s family, she says, “Let me check.” The woman types with infuriating slowness. “Kingston, Maisie... no, I don’t see her in our system today.”
“Could you check again?” Sydney steps in, her voice taking on that smooth, professional tone she uses for her broadcasts. “She’s undergoing cancer treatment. She might have been admitted directly to oncology.”
The receptionist gives Sydney a look that clearly says she doesn’t appreciate being told how to do her job, but she types again anyway. “Nothing in the last twenty-four hours. If she was brought in as an emergency patient, she’d still be in our system.”
“What about people brought in unconscious, or without ID?” I press, the scenarios in my head getting darker by the second. “She could have fallen, or—”
“Sir, we have no unidentified patients at this time.” The receptionist’s voice has an edge to it. “Would you like me to call oncology directly?”
“I’ll do it.” I pull out my phone. “What’s the direct line?”
She rattles off a number that I punch in withshaking fingers. It rings four times before an automated message informs me that the oncology clinic is now closed, and if this is an emergency, I should hang up and dial 911.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving the phone back in my pocket. “They’re closed.”
Sydney places a hand on my arm, the contact brief but steadying. “Let’s check emergency anyway, just to be sure. Then we’ll figure out next steps.”
The emergency room is a study in controlled chaos—nurses moving with practiced efficiency between curtained areas, the occasional alarm beeping, worried families clustered in uncomfortable chairs. None of them are Meema.
We approach the triage nurse, repeating our questions, receiving the same negative answers. By the time we’ve exhausted all possibilities, the clock on the wall shows nearly eleven, and my panic has crystallized into something colder, harder.
“Where the hell could she be?” I say as we push back through the hospital’s automatic doors into the night air. “She doesn’t drive anymore. She wouldn’t just wander off.”
Sydney closes her eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights of the parking lot, her face pale with worry. “She could be with Pam—we haven’t gotten a hold of her yet.”
