I nod.
“She’s alert, Dal. She’s breathing fine. No broken bones… she’s okay.”
She’s not, but I appreciate Adrian lying to make me feel better.
Together we turn a corner. The hallway opens onto a waiting area with too many chairs and not enough air. A couple in the corner is holding hands like they’re afraid their fingers will disappear if they let go. A little boy sleeps with his head in his mother’s lap. The TV mounted in the corner is muted, a news anchor’s mouth moving soundlessly while catastrophe scrolls at the bottom of the screen.
At the far end of the waiting area stands a woman in a charcoal suit with glasses, greying brown hair pulled low in a neat bun, a badge clipped to her lapel.
She takes a step forward when she sees us approaching. “Mr. Collins?” she asks.
I stop. My body goes still. Everything in me tightens like a trigger.
“That’s me,” says Adrian, heading toward her with his hand outstretched.
I let him. I know what he’s doing. In my panic, I gave the patient advocate my name over the phone. When dealing withoutsiders, it’s better to use a pseudonym, especially when you’re a practiced killer—or the King.
So Adrian told me that he would pretend to be a Collins. As for me…
I know who I’m going to be. I told Adrian my plan on the car ride over, and while he tried to talk me out of it, the fact that he still acted like he’s a Collins instead of a Heller tells me that he’s letting me go along with it.
The middle-aged woman takes his hand, shaking it gingerly. “My name is Carol Boulanger. The patient advocate for Ms. Wright.”
Hearing Lucy’s surname hits like a punch to the gut.
Lucy…
“How is she?” I ask, skipping the part where I pretend I’m not about to break. After all, if I’m who I say I am, shouldn’t she expect it?
Then again, if I’m who I say I am, I should’ve been here long before now, and the way her face shifts into something careful is proof of that. “She’s stable. She woke up earlier this morning. She’s… confused.”
My throat tightens. “Confused how?”
“She has significant memory loss,” Carol murmurs. “The doctors are still determining whether it’s neurological or trauma-induced, though they’re leaning toward the latter. She knows English. She can answer general questions. But she doesn’t know who she is.”
My heart doesn’t just beat. Itthuds.Boom-boom-boom against my ribcage, even though I already knew this. She told me when I first called back, demanding to know what happened to Lucy that she found herself in a hospital bed. Dissociative amnesia… that’s the current diagnosis. The scans she’s had done don’t reveal any permanent damage to her skull or her brain.However, something’s wrong, and they think it has everything to do with her ‘accident’.
That’s because trauma doesn’t always leave clean edges. Sometimes the brain locks its doors to survive, and even though she’s awake and aware, it’s protecting her from remembering something…
Adrian clears his throat. “Where is she now?”
Carol gestures toward a set of double doors with a keypad. “She’s in a monitored unit. However, there are a few procedural steps before you can see her. She knows you’re here… she knows that we can eventually discharge her into your custody if that’s what she decides… but the hospital insists on following protocol first. I’m sure you understand.”
I understand that, if she doesn’t bring me to Lucy and soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.
Adrian knows. He lays his hand on my sleeve. “We’d be happy to.”
Carol nods, then looks past us, and that’s when I see him. Fuck me. How did I not notice him before?
A squat, older man in a white dress shirt and pressed khakis is leaning against the far wall like he’s bored; you could mistake him for someone else simply waiting except for the gun on his belt. Hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room lazily, I’ve had enough dealings with the police to know that he’s nowhere near as disinterested as he appears.
Carol’s expression turns apologetic, though I know that’s bullshit, too. “Detective Hargrove has a few questions. Standard protocol, given the circumstances.”
Given the circumstances, huh? Yeah. I know what that means.
Translation:she fell from a height, there’s no clear story about how that happened, and someone wants to cover their ass.
I take one step forward, then another, until the obvious cop straightens slightly. His gaze flicks over me, assessing. I know what he sees. I’m at least two decades younger than him. Four inches taller. Beneath my hoodie, I’m built from a lifetime of using a punching bag while imagining it has Jack’s face on it.
