Page 110 of Cruel Submission

“We say I was treated well enough. That I’m home now. That I’m safe.”

I feel terrible for lying to him, but what’s the alternative? Dad, Debra was kept as a sex slave by the father of my fiancé. Yes, the same fiancé you met at the hospital. Also, I’m carrying his grandchild. Surprise.

“He’ll want details,” I say.

“Then we don’t give them. We tell him it’s an ongoing investigation. That we can’t discuss it yet.”

“Dad doesn’t like being shut out.”

“Dad doesn’t get a choice.” The words come out sharp, and she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, the flatness is back. “We’re protecting him, Mira. He doesn’t need to know all of it.”

She’s right. But there’s something vicious in the irony—that the two of us, the people he raised to be honest and forthright, are sitting in a bulletproof car planning the lies we’re going to feed him.

“Okay. Simple version. You were taken. You’re back. You’re safe. Everything else we’ll explain when we can.”

“When we can,” Debra repeats. Testing the phrase.

We pull into the car park at St. Mary’s. I find a spot near the entrance—not laziness, but Stefan’s instructions: Park where you can see the exit. If anything happens, you run.

The panic button is in my pocket. Debra has one too, disguised as a bracelet. We’re two women visiting our father in the hospital, armed with satellite-tracked emergency beacons.

Inside, Arkady’s men are already positioned—two of them in orderly uniforms near the nurses’ station on the fourth floor, blending in with the hospital staff so seamlessly I almost walk past them. One gives me the faintest nod.

The elevator takes us to oncology. Muscle memory takes over—left at the nurses’ station, right past the family room, third door on the left. Dad’s room.

Except when we get there, he’s not there.

The bed is made. Empty. Monitors off. For a single, terrible moment, my brain fills with every worst-case scenario it’s been rehearsing for the past year.

Oh my God!

Debra’s hand finds mine.

I flag down Dr. Klein, who’s reviewing charts at the nurses’ station. “My father—Peter McLeod—he’s not in his room.”

Dr. Klein looks up. Doesn’t look concerned, which is either very good or very bad. “Oh, Mr. McLeod is in the restaurant.”

“The restaurant?” My tone is incredulous.

“Yes. His appetite has returned over the past few days. He’s been eating well, gaining weight. His results are—” He pauses, choosing words. “Remarkably good. No one quite knows how to account for it, but your father is improving. Significantly.”

I stare at him. Something in me wants to grab hold of this, and something else is screaming no, don’t, don’t you dare hope.

“I’d like to discuss his progress with you properly when you have a moment,” Dr. Klein adds. “After your visit.”

I nod. Can’t speak.

Debra and I stand in the corridor for a moment. Then she turns to me, and her face is lit with hope for the first time since she was rescued.

“Restaurant,” she says.

“Restaurant,” I confirm.

We head that way.

The hospital restaurant is exactly as depressing as you’d expect—vinyl chairs, the smell of reheated everything, a sad salad bar. Prepackaged sandwiches that have been there since last Tuesday.

And at a table by the window, looking better than he has in six months, is our father.