CHAPTER 10
Noah
“You have to wake it up,” a man in standard-issue hospital-green scrubs says on his way past, pausing long enough to smack his palm against the vending machine. A hair-raising metal-against-metal sound kicks in and then, a few seconds later, a steady stream of brown sludge begins trickling out.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. After you taste it, you’ll want to make a right turn out of the parking lot and drive to the nearest Waffle House.” His chuckles trail him down the dimly lit hall as I wait for the paper cup to fill.
If this coffee matches this hospital, I’ll be taking him up on that advice.
I can’t put my finger on what it is about the emergency room that bothers me. Is it the unwelcoming waiting-room chairs—the color of canned peas and as comfortable as a plank of wood—or the dim lighting that screams of cutting overhead costs, or the dove-gray tile floor that can’t hide the thin layer of dust coating it?
Or maybe it has nothing to do with the hospital’s lackluster décor and everything to do with being here with Abe Wilkes’s daughter, waiting to hear if her junkie mom managed to kill herself this time around. After fighting a kitchen fire that ended up burning down their home.
I don’t know how I saw today going, but it definitely wasn’t like this.
The vending machine takes forever to dispense my order, so I use the time to study Gracie from afar, tucked away in the corner, her smooth, caramel-colored legs crossed at the ankles, those hands that brandished a knife to my stomach mere hours ago now folded daintily in her lap, her profile a stone mask as she stares out the window.
She hasn’t spoken to me since the car ride, except to give directions and numbly agree to my offer of coffee. Given what she just went through, I’ve respected her silence, keeping quiet as I trailed her through the emergency-room doors.
But now I need to know more. Specifically, how the hell did Abe’s family end up living like this—and did my mother know about it?
She must have. Her note said Gracie needs this money.
Holding two cups filled with the lukewarm tar-like substance, I make my way over to the corner.
She’s on the phone. “I can’t make it into work tonight . . . No . . . My mom is in the hospital . . . Still waiting to hear . . .”
She’s wearing a red polo shirt with a label that says QuikTrip and she told the paramedics that she was at work all morning, so either she was supposed to pull two shifts today or she has two jobs.
When she hangs up, I hold out her coffee for her. “I forgot to ask you what you wanted in it.”
She stares blankly at it for a moment. “That’s fine.”
I set the cup down on the small table between us, emptying my pockets of all the cream and sugar I scooped up. “You might need the sugar anyway.” The adrenaline that’s kept me going is waning. I fall into the seat kitty-corner to her, stretching my long, tired legs out.
She glares at them. “Do you have something against personal space?”
“No, ma’am.” I adjust myself so I’m angled away from her. And remind myself that she did just come home to find her mother overdosed and her shitty-ass trailer on fire, so she’s entitled to her foul mood.
Uncomfortable silence hangs between us.
“Where’d you learn about rescue breathing?” she finally asks, her voice softer, almost conciliatory.
“CPR training. I got my lifeguard certification in high school.” I unconsciously slide my hand up my arm, thinking that I haven’t been in a pool since my mom died. Or on the courts. Or at the gym.
Her eyes trail the movement. “Let me guess—you sat in a chair at the beach, watching girls in bikinis all summer. Must have been rough.”
I guess knowing I’m not her mother’s heroin dealer hasn’t changed her unflattering opinion of me much. “Rich Boy.” That’s what she called me earlier. True, I’ve never wanted for much, but I hardly grew up “rich.”
I force a grin. “More like, I taught four-year-olds how to swim in a pool that they definitely peed in.”
Her face doesn’t so much as hint at a smile, the humor lost. I sense her wanting to say more, but she stops herself with a sip of coffee. “Ugh . . .” She winces and sets the cup back on the table, glaring at it like it’s laced with arsenic. “Glad I never gave that machine a dime the last time I was here.”
“When was that?” I ask as casually as possible. She had mentioned that the paramedics knew where they lived. Her mom’s an addict. This clearly isn’t the first time Dina has overdosed.
“Two months ago. And five months before that.” She studies her fingernails for a long moment, perhaps deciding how much she wants to divulge to me, a stranger. “I go to work, and she makes a few calls. Sees which of her dealers are around. Sometimes she goes to them. Sometimes they’ll swing by our trailer with it. I never actually see who they are; I just see the aftermath. She takes a little bit more each time, until it’s too much.”
She says it calmly, but now I understand why she freaked out when she saw me on her steps. “I’m sorry. It can’t be easy, finding your mother like that.” Though I’d take it over how I found my mother. A sharp pang fills my chest and I lean forward to rest my forearms on my knees, my focus on the dusty shoe prints covering the floor. “So, what happens now?” Assuming she makes it. The paramedics administered another dose of Narcan when they arrived, trying to pull her back from the edge of a cliff she may have already slipped off.
“If she survives, they’ll help her detox. She’ll check herself out too early and promise to go to one of those free shitty rehab programs. She’ll go to one or two meetings and decide that it’s not for her, that she can do this on her own. She’ll stay clean for a few days. And then she’ll go out and pick up a bottle of vodka, and polish it off in one sitting. Once that’s not enough, she’ll start pumping crap into her veins again. Then, one day, I’ll come home and find her unconscious. Or dead.” She snorts, but it’s a poor attempt to distract from the fact that her eyes are welling. “Then again, we don’t have a home now, so . . .”
It seems Gracie has already accepted the fact that her mother is going to die soon. It’s just a question of when.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with this.” There are so many other questions I want to ask, like when did this start, and why? But I know why. Because the beautiful, loving woman who swung Abe’s girl in her arms had her life turned upside down. That woman I carried out of that trailer today? That frail, wasted-away, greasy-haired human with track marks up her arm? That’s not the same person.
Gracie’s piercing gaze weighs on me, silently assessing me, before she quietly admits, “I know who you are.”
My stomach dips at her admission. “How?”
“My mother . . . she told me about Austin and my dad. And your mom. She—” She stops abruptly, gritting her teeth.
It stirs unease in me. “What did she say about my mom?” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. What might Dina know?
Gracie’s throat bobs with her swallow. “I knew you, before.”
That’s not what she was going to say, but I’ll go with it. For now. “Yeah. You did.”
“I don’t remember,” she mumbles, more to herself.
“You were young.” A little girl, with bows in her hair.
But Gracie’s no little girl anymore.
For the first time since I saw her storming up the road toward me, hatred burning in her eyes, I finally have a chance to really take all of her in, up close—the wild mane of golden brown hair that frames her face, the curls like soft springs jutting out in all directions; her perfect, dainty nose; the defining emerald-green rim that makes the icy mint-green filling of her irises pop that much more; a set of full, soft pink lips that stretch wide across her caramel-colored face.
I’ve never met anyone who looks quite like her.
I must have been staring at her for too long, because she starts to fidget, tugging at the hem of her shirt, then crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s in there?” She nods toward my gym bag.
I instinctively pull it closer to my side. The Glock is back in my portable safe. I let Gracie go ahead of me so I could lock it up, because walking into a hospital with a gun is definitely not a smart move. But there’s no way I’m letting this money out of my sight. “Just my stuff.”
She eyes it suspiciously. “You have something to give me. That’s why you came.”
I hesitate. “Yeah. But it’ll have to wait.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not something I can give you right here.”
Her gaze narrows, and I’m beginning to think that whatever trust I earned by helping her earlier has already dwindled.
I’m saved from more uncomfortable questions when a male calls out, “Grace Richards.” Not Wilkes, I note. She’s on her feet and moving toward the desk where a man wearing a salmon-colored shirt and a stethoscope around his neck waits for her. I follow closely. She glances over her shoulder at me once, spearing me with a strange expression, but she doesn’t send me away.
Dina is going to make it. The Narcan worked, reversing the deadly effects of the heroin she injected. They’re running additional tests to determine if the drug was mixed with something else that could cause organ damage or other complications.
A heavy sigh of relief sails from Gracie’s lips. “So what now? The usual?”
The doctor offers her a sympathetic smile. “We don’t have a bed available in our rehab program today. I can get her in as a regular inpatient to help her detox. We’ll start her on Subutex and switch her over to Suboxone once she’s stable. That would be best given her history.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“None of it is going to be enough for her,” he says gently. “Have you looked into those programs that we talked about?” Obviously this isn’t the first time he himself has treated Dina.
She gives him a flat look. “We live in a trailer park.”
“And you’re sure there are no family members who could help with the cost?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Her icy tone leaves no invitation for more questions about that.
“Okay, Grace. I’m just trying to help.” He pauses. “You know, some people are able to get the services they need while serving time.”
She bows her head and remains silent. Seeing as Gracie had the focus to destroy the syringe her mom used to shoot up even with the trailer burning down around her, I don’t think she’s willing to consider jail as an option for her mother.
“Do you want to see her?”
She shakes her head.
His answering look is one of sympathy. “Then go home and come back tomorrow during visiting hours. I’m sure seeing you, even for a few minutes, would help her through the worst of it.”
“She burned down our trailer today.”
“Jesus.” The doctor sighs with defeat. “Let’s wait a few days to tell her about that.” His gaze flickers to me, and I instantly see the question in them.
I’ll take care of her, I mouth. Because I have a feeling that saying it out loud would earn me a verbal flaying.
With a slight nod, the doctor pats her on the shoulder, repeating, “Try and get some rest.”
She watches him as he disappears behind doors and then abruptly spins on her heels and wanders back toward the waiting area to sink into the same chair, a lost look in her eyes. “I should have left that syringe there. I shouldn’t cover for her,” she mumbles.
“Do you think they would have found it?”
“Probably not, unless I handed it to the cops myself. But he’s right. Jail is better than the alternative.”
Dead. I have to agree.
“You seriously have no family out here?”
“Nope.”
“Does your dad’s family know what’s going on with her?” I never met them, but I have to believe Abe’s family was decent.
She studies her short, plain fingernails for a long moment. “My father’s parents are both dead. There’s no one else.”
For the first time since I found this money, I’m actually happy to have it. I couldn’t be giving it to her at a better time. I just have to figure out exactly how to give it to her, and it’s not going to be in the hospital waiting room.
The sound of her stomach growling gives me an idea.
“I was thinking of grabbing a burger. Do you want to come with me?”
“I’m not hungry.” Her face remains stony, even as she gives me a sideways glance.
“Well, I am. And tired. And filthy.” I can’t wait to wash the stench of smoke off me.
She leans back until her head is resting against the wall. She folds her arms over her chest and closes her eyes.
This is not going to be simple, but she seems smart enough to listen to reason. “Look, you heard the doctor—you should get some sleep.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. If you’d stop talking . . .” she mutters.
As if the girl who carries a switchblade around in her purse will fall asleep surrounded by a bunch of strangers in a waiting room. “There’s a motel down the street, about a mile. I’m gonna grab a room for the night. Why don’t you come with me?”
Now she cracks an eyelid, to give me a scathing look. “You think because your mom and my dad knew each other fourteen years ago that I’m going to follow you to your motel room?” She snorts, like it’s the most absurd idea ever. I guess under normal circumstances, it would be.
“I don’t . . . That’s not . . .” I sigh, the implication behind her words thick. I can’t help but let out a soft chuckle. The thought of getting laid right now is laughable. “I’m trying to help you. And I’ll get you your own room, seeing as I don’t trust that you won’t stab me in my sleep.”
“No one’s ever just trying to help. So tell me what you want or leave me the hell alone.”
I rub the spot between my eyes where my head is beginning to pound. There’s not going to be any dancing around this with her. “My mother died last week, and she left something for you.”
Wariness flickers across her face. “What is it?”
“Something that could . . . change things for you.”
“What is it?” she pushes.
“I can’t say here.” I hold her gaze.
“Does it have to do with my dad?”
I hesitate. “It might.” Ninety-eight thousand dollars in cash that my mom went out of her way to hide and insisted it go to Gracie? My gut says it has everything to do with Abe.
It’s clear that the topic of her father is a touchy one for her, even after all these years. “Let’s go find a place to stay and get some food, and then we can talk.”
She sits up, looking ready to follow me out. But I see the moment she decides against it, the moment when her shoulders sag and her body sinks back into her chair and that ongoing fire that’s been simmering inside her fades out. “You know what? I’m tired of this. So no . . . unless you’ve got something that’s going to prove that my father wasn’t some drug-dealing scumbag who ruined our lives, then I don’t want whatever it is, because it’s not going to change anything for me.” Her slender, lithe frame suddenly seems so small, so . . . beaten down. Physically, she’s still young and vibrant.
Beautiful.
But she’s got a haunted gaze in her eyes, the kind you get when life has disappointed you over and over again, when you’ve seen and suffered.
“He was a good man.”
“I need her to know.”
My stomach tightens as my mother’s voice fills my head, reminding me that it’s not just money that she wanted to give Abe’s daughter. She wanted to fix this. To give Gracie peace of mind. A coat of polish for the tarnished memory of her father.
A chance to know a different truth.
But how the hell do I give her that without telling her everything that I know, everything Silas made me swear to keep to myself, to protect my mother’s name?
I don’t think I can.
But I can give her ninety-eight thousand dollars, if I get her somewhere more private. Someplace where she can’t cause a scene and bring the cops around.
“Look, I just drove twelve hours across two states to see you. I know you didn’t ask me to, but I’m here. I haven’t done anything today to make you think that I’m a bad guy, or that I’d hurt you, have I?”
“No, but—”
“You don’t want to sit in this crappy hospital waiting room all night, starving and tired. So please, Gracie. Trust me. Just this once.” I’ve been told that I’m hard to resist when I resort to begging. I don’t usually use these powers—I do have some dignity—but if there ever was a time to pull out all the stops, this is it.
Her wary gaze shifts to the gym bag, then back to me.
Finally, she stands, tugging at the bottoms of her shorts to adjust them. “No one calls me Gracie.” I hear the pained warning behind it. And I can guess why.
That’s what Abe called her.
“I’m sorry . . . Grace.”
Grabbing her purse, she starts walking toward the door, mumbling, “Pizza is better.”
I sigh with relief. “Pizza it is.”
She does a quick scan of her clothes, which are as dirty as mine. “And can we stop at a store on the way?”
“Anything you want.”
“Are you always so agreeable?”
“Yes, ma’am. I try to be.”
She exhales a shaky breath and presses her lips together. I can’t miss the hint of anticipation flickering in her eyes or the faint air of hopefulness that lifts her shoulders.
She does want whatever my mother left for her and, despite her obvious skepticism, she is hoping it’s something that will change her life.
A bag of money will do that, but I’m not sure it’s what she’s looking for, especially if she starts jumping to conclusions about why it should go to her in the first place.
Who am I kidding?
This girl is going to kill me.