I just need to grab a set of keys and walk out the door. Piece of cake.
For all I know, a second Russian advance team has already tracked me here. The longer I stall, the better their chances of trapping me.
Straightening my shoulders, I leave the bathroom, return to the waiting room, and find a spot on the wall by the door, fiddling with the burner phone Brody left in the BMW to appear busy.
A minute or so later, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a long maxi dress drifts in from the parking lot, keys jangling in her left hand. She heads for the check-in counter and begins talking to the nurse with tired eyes and a thick blond braid dangling over her shoulder.
My focus zeroes in on those keys. The woman sets them on the counter and plops her bohemian bag up next to them so she can dig through the contents.
Now’s my chance.
As I stride in her direction, nerves and anticipatory guilt jitter through my stomach. I haven’t even done anything, yet my body already overflows with shame.
You’d think the family I come from would grant me some genetic predisposition to committing crimes without remorse, but not so much. As I zoom in on my target, my conscience remains very much intact.
That’s Catholic boarding school for you.
As I approach, I tune in to their conversation.
“…my son was in an accident, and I’m not sure our health insurance will cover the visit.” The mother’s voice wobbles.
Shit.
At the last second, I pivot, grab a pamphlet from the counter, and return to my spot by the door.
Desperate or not, I can’t steal that woman’s car. She has enough to worry about already.
Where’s a loud, arrogant asshole when you need one?
I peer around the waiting room, searching for a better target while guilt squeezes my heart.
Haven’t you sinned enough today?
Shouts erupt nearby, cutting through my inner turmoil. Activity explodes near the ambulance entrance to the ER. Over the intercom, someone alerts staff to an incoming transport.
The double doors burst open. As I remember the way the door to the safe house exploded inward, my heart leaps up into my throat. I’m frozen in place, expecting more armed Russians to come rushing in. Instead, two EMTs wheel in a stretcher.
The one with green hair waves to a pair of nurses currently rushing over to help. “Patient’s an adult male, lacerated thigh and multiple abrasions. Lost a lot of blood.”
My eyes drop to the wounded person strapped to the stretcher, and every cell in my body stills.
Brody.
His face is ashen, and he’s still unconscious, covered in gauze and hooked up to a rolling IV.
I can’t move, pinned to the spot. Guilt and nausea and horror churn in my stomach, threatening to rise up my throat.
Brody vanishes through another set of doors with the nurses and doctors. In my trembling grip, the pamphlet rips.
Oh god.
My heart beats low and fast in my chest. As my feet gravitate after him, time slows down.
When I left him, I chose myself. Now, as I’m pulled in his direction, I don’t know what I’m choosing.
A nurse just a bit taller than I am stops me at the doors. “Sorry, miss. You can’t go back there.”
I spin to gaze up at him. With his marsh green eyes and the freckles speckled over his nose, he reminds me of Angelica.
