Two weeks.
Fourteen days of hiding while Brian woke up alone. Fourteen days of the crew looking over their shoulders. Fourteen days of Richard Lang smiling for cameras while his son grew more dangerous by the hour.
I thought about the life I'd built. The ER, where my value was measurable and earned. The apartment that had become a home. Brian?—
Brian, who looked at me like I was worth fighting for. Who had spent four years proving that partnership didn't mean losing myself. Who was out there right now, refusing to give up on someone who had walked away without saying goodbye.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard. My mother made a soft sound of distress and reached for my hand across the table.
"Sweetheart—"
"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. I was falling apart in the same dining room where I'd learned to perform. Smile. Be perfect.
"You'll get your life back," my father said. His voice was gentler now, the sharp edges softened into something almost paternal. "The career you've built. The people you care about. All of it. I promise."
I nodded. Made myself take a bite of food I couldn't taste.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out automatically, expecting another news alert about the investigation, another headline with Richard Lang's face plastered across it.
Unknown number.
If you want this to stop, meet me at Bellini's. Come alone.
I read the message again. Again. The words blurred, then sharpened.
Richard Lang.
It had to be. No one else would send a message like this, would know that I'd do almost anything to make the threats stop.
"Ava?" My mother's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You've gone pale. What is it?"
I turned the phone face-down on the table. Made my expression blank.
"Nothing," I said. "Just Dr. Park asking how I am. If you'll excuse me, I think I need some air."
I left them at the table—my father frowning, my mother reaching for the wine bottle—and walked to my room on legs that didn't feel like mine.
Watson lifted his head when I entered. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone in my hand.
If you want this to stop.
Richard Lang was offering me a way out. A chance to end this before anyone else got hurt. Before Brian got hurt again.
All I had to do was go alone.
The phone rang twice before Richard Lang answered.
"Dr. Rothwell." His voice was smooth, controlled—the same one I'd heard on television, at press conferences, in the nightmares I'd had since this all began. "I've been waiting for your call."
My heart was pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. "I got your message."
"And here I thought you might simply ignore it. Hide away in your father's townhouse until this all blows over." A hint of amusement colored his tone. "I'm pleased to see you're more practical than that."
"What do you want?"
"The same thing I've wanted from the beginning. A conversation. An opportunity to resolve this situation without any further... unpleasantries."
