With each greasy, cheesy bite of food, the world’s a little clearer. No longer in soft focus like it’s been since my accident. I can’t finish the meal, but I don’t care. It was still the best food I’ve had in…a long time.
“What did he give me?” I ask quietly. “At the hospital…I don’t remember what they said…”
Connor pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his Wranglers and spreads it out on the table. “Scopolamine, primarily, but also something called temazepam. They’re used for motion sickness and insomnia, but in high enough doses, the two—hell, even one of them—can act a lot like rohypnol. The date rape drug?”
“Shit. Is that why everything’s fuzzy?”
Running a hand through his short-cropped brown hair, Connor sighs. “You cracked your skull in two places when you fell. But the brain scans you had before Alec checked you out of the hospital didn’t show any long-term damage. I talked to your attending physician two days ago, and he told Alec if you went to physical therapy and worked the program, you’d regain most of your mobility.”
“So when you said I’d walk again…” I can’t finish the sentence. Because it’s been months. What if it’s too late?
“There’s a room waiting for you at a long-term rehab facility in Arlington,” he says. “They’re the best in the state. Psychological counseling, physical therapy, and top-notch security. I’ve sent a couple of my guys there. Including one who had a mob hit out on him. No one’s getting to you at Thatcher House.”
The idea of going somewhere new terrifies me, but I want out of this damn chair so badly I can taste it. “A room?”
“Well, it’s more like a small apartment.” He moves to one of the two beds in the room with an open suitcase I hadn’t noticed before. Of course, I hadn’t looked either. I’m used to not looking. Used to not thinking for myself. Used to letting Alec control everything. Pulling out a brochure, Connor hands it to me.
“I can’t just…live with you for a while?” I hate how desperate I sound. We’re not close. Hell, I don’t even know what he does for a living beyond something for the government.
Connor shakes his head, but his eyes are soft. Almost apologetic. “I don’t know the first thing about what you need, Quinton. Other than a hell of a lot of counseling and a team of doctors on your side. You’ll get that at Thatcher House. And I’ll check on you.”
Rummaging in his suitcase again, he comes up with a brand new cell phone still in the box. “My number’s already programmed in here. You can reach me twenty-four hours a day. And that phone isn’t registered in your name. Or any name traceable to me. Mom…I’ll bring her to visit you in a couple of weeks. But not until I’m sure she understands just how important it is that she never,everbreathe a word about you to Alec.”
This entire day has been wave after wave of reality crashing down on me. I can’t handle any more. When the first sob escapes, Connor scoots his chair close to mine and wraps his arms around me. “You’re safe now, Q. And you’re going to get better. I promise.”
* * *
The sterile graywalls in one of Thatcher House’s three little meeting rooms feel like they’re closing in on me. Across the table, my lawyer, Randall Sunstrom, removes a small stack of papers from a manilla folder.
“As we discussed, Quinton, this order of protection won’t stop Mr. Harrow from harassing you. But it will make it a crime for him to do so. Whether or not the police choose to do anything about that crime...well...”
My stomach twists into knots. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been one giant knot since Connor first introduced me to Randall.
“Just need your signature.”
My fingers are shaking so much, I drop the pen twice. As I pick it up for the third time, the meeting room door slams open, and I jerk, sending a spasm of pain from my back all the way down my legs.
“What thehellare we paying you for, Sunstrom?” Connor shouts, his massive presence sucking all the air from the room in a heartbeat.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“You can’t charge that bastard with anything? He kept Quinton prisoner for more than two months. He drugged him, locked him up in that condo, and kept him trapped in a wheelchair!”
Randall pushes to his feet, though he’s at least six inches shorter than my brother. “Mr. Davis, as I told your brother, Mr. Harrow didn’t technically break any laws.”
“The hell he didn’t!”
“Connor.” My voice isn’t much more than a whisper, and I can’t look my brother in the face. But he stops and turns to me. “Randall’s right.”
“How? Q, you were barely lucid when I got you out of there.”
“I never said no.”
“What?” Dropping into a chair next to me, Connor rests his elbow on the table. “Explain.”
Shame curls my shoulders inward, and I fidget with the RFID bracelet that opens the various doors in and out of the facility. “You read my journal.”
“So? He’s a sociopath. He doesn’t have a conscience. That doesn’t excuse what he did.”
