She wheeled the cart into the nurse’s station and parked it. “We don’t publicize it, but we take a certain proportion of charity cases, usually when the public hospitals are in Code Black. We’re not required to take anyone and everyone, like other hospitals, because we don’t have an ER.” She nodded to the room. “That one’s an overflow from intensive care—not palliative, not yet. Medically induced coma after a head injury. Sleeping it off.It’s incredible how long the human body can survive with the minimum number of inputs and outputs—and good care,” she added with a wink. “The famous and the homeless, side by side at the end.”
Her gaze drifted over Griffin’s shoulder, and he turned. Lana stood there, hugging the tablet, pale under the harsh lights. He clicked—the gray lady. His mom was referring to the librarian ghost fromGhostbusters. He must have watched that movie twenty times as a kid.The gray lady is not who you think. What the hell did that mean? So his momhaddone a background check on her?
“Lana? You okay?”
“Can we get out of here? That was…”
“You found him?”
“He found me.”
Griffin laid a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes flickered to the nurse, who quickly looked away. He ushered Lana away. She waited until they were alone, outside in the turning bay, to fill him in.
She fanned her eyes, blinking repeatedly. “People keep telling me there’s nothing wrong, but I know something’s wrong.”
“Hey.” He checked that no one was watching and pulled her in, kissing her crown. She melted, giving herself over, and he was only too happy to take the load. She’d been so strong through all of this. Frustrated and worried, sure, but head high and intent on maintaining focus.
He released her only when the car was brought up. He tipped the valet, and they got in, subdued. As they reached the security gate, he slowed.
“What’s with all the people?” Lana said.
“I don’t know.” On the other side of the barrier arm, a dozen paps jostled each other, alongside regular people holding upphones. “I doubt they’re here for me. Something’s happened, for sure.” He lowered his window as he coasted to the security booth. The crowd started shouting—he couldn’t make out words, except for his name. “What’s going on?” he asked the guard.
“I dunno, man, they just started showing—” He turned to the barrier arm. “Hey! You can’t come through there!”
A couple of paps had ducked under it and were approaching the car, snapping photos through the windshield.
“Omigod, what’s happening?” Lana said.
With the line breached, others followed. Shouts broke through the hubbub. “Who’s the new girlfriend, Griffin?” “Griffin, over here!” “Not your usual type—what’s the story?” Paps, trying to get a rise out of him.
Griffin locked the doors and put the car into reverse. Too late—a woman was standing right behind the trunk. They were trapped. A pap shoved a video camera in the open window. Even as Griffin pushed it away, he knew he shouldn’t—that kind of footage was exactly what they wanted.
“Lift the barrier!” he yelled to the guard. “And call for help.” He managed to get the window up. With the outside sound muted, he caught a mewling noise from Lana. Terror had her pinned against the seat, staring into a zombie horror show of faces and camera lenses. Someone bumped the car. His phone rang.
The barrier arm lifted, but still they couldn’t move—a pap in an orange cap leaned over the hood, snapping through the windscreen. One of the regulars. There was another bump, and the car swayed, jostled by a couple of dozen people. Camera flashes popped like a strobe light in a club. His phone kept on ringing.
A black car pulled up, facing them, and four people got out, leaving the doors open. They were blocking Griffin’s exit. Commanding shouts cut through the clamor. The pap in theorange cap was yanked away and shoved aside. He shouted at his assailant—a tall guy in black clothing. More people were hauled away, each by figures dressed in black. Their faces were unmasked, but there was no mistaking their clothing, their military swagger.
“Is that the goons?” Lana said.
“Yep.” But they’d unwittingly done him a favor—the hood was clear. Their car was directly in front, but there was an unobstructed path to the left—the incoming lane, currently empty. Griffin slammed on the accelerator, turning the wheel. The car bumped over a concrete pad separating the lanes and thumped down onto the other side—first the front wheels, then the back. He spun the wheel, smashing through the barrier blocking the entrance, and careered onto the road beyond. Horns blared.
He cursed, hard and loud, then exhaled heavily, forcing himself to focus on the road in front, assimilate into the traffic, calm the fuck down before he rear-ended someone. Lana looked behind them as the hospital shrank from view.
“Are they following?” he said.
“No.”
“Let’s just get back to my place.”
His phone started ringing again. As he pulled up to a tail of traffic, he drew it out: Natasha. He groaned, putting her on speakerphone as the lane started moving.
“Griffin! What the hell is going on?”
“Why?”
“Because my phone is going insane. Emails, texts. Everyone’s going nuts about a new girlfriend—a librarian stalker who posed as an extra to meet you! What the actual?” Lana swung to face Griffin, mouth open, eyes wild. “There are photos—holding hands in a parking lot, sitting in a car at the beach. Oh, andanother one just popped up—you hugging her and kissing her hair, at Beverly Grove Health Center.”
