“Hey,” he says when he sees me lingering in the doorway of his private room. “Come in.”
I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals.
Antiseptic. Sterile plastic. Bleached flannel. Fresh-and-dying flowers.
I sanitize my hands, place my bag on the counter, and strip out of my jacket.
“Are you okay?” I go to his side. Instinctively, I reach for his hand and then I stop myself when I see the IV taped to the top. “What happened? And why are you in the cardiac unit?”
Everything about him is unfamiliar in this setting.
No power suit.
No healthy flush painting his bronzed skin.
No wicked gleam in his eyes.
No smart-mouthed quip readied on his tongue.
Bennett sits up, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and then he tugs at the top of his hospital gown until his chest and shoulders are exposed.
And then I see it.
The thick, pink scar going down the middle of his chest.
“A year ago, I underwent a heart transplant.” He studies me, though for what, I’m not sure. “This week, I started showing signs of rejection.”
My breath catches as I wait for him to continue.
“I’m going to be okay. For now. I’ve got a procedure in the morning and they’ll run some more tests.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before? The heart thing?”
He lifts a brow. “Because it never came up in conversation?”
I don’t remind him of that night when he refused to remove his shirt. The man’s lying in a hospital bed—now’s not the time to pick a fight.
I reach for a chair and pull it closer to his bed. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as he needs.
“Statistically, twenty-five percent of heart transplant patients don’t survive past five years,” he says.
“Stop. We’re not going to focus on that. We’re going to focus on the seventy-five percent who do survive past five years …”
The light shuffle of feet behind me and a quick rap at the door interrupts our moment, and I turn to find his nurse headed our way.
“Mr. Schoenbach, you haven’t ordered dinner yet and the kitchen closes in half an hour,” she says as she checks his pulse ox. “Should probably get something in your stomach before you take your next dose at nine.”
“You want me to run out? Grab you something?” I offer. “If you want, I can run to your place and get some things for you?”
He contemplates his response. I imagine he isn’t used to being so needy, having to rely on the kindness of others. It can’t be easy for someone like him, so autonomous in every aspect of his life.
“I brought a phone charger like you asked.” I point to my bag on the counter, and before he has a chance to reply, I grab his phone and find a spot to plug it in next to him. Turning to the nurse, I say, “I’ll make sure he eats something tonight.”
As soon as she’s gone, Bennett looks me up and down. “You don’t have to do all of this.”
“I know.” I wink, and then I help myself to his apartment keys in a plastic bag on his tray. “Clean clothes? House slippers? Books? Any other comforts of home I can get for you while I’m out picking up your dinner?”
He shakes his head no.
“I’ll be back …” I collect my jacket and bag and tread softly down the tile floor to the elevator at the end of the hall. When the doors close, I can’t help but wonder if the heart beating inside Bennett’s chest … is Trevor’s.
But we’ll never know.
Those records are sealed, private.
And no amount of wondering will bring Trevor back.
Bennett’s place smells exactly the way I remember—cedar and Valencia with a hint of vanilla bourbon. I locate a small duffel bag in his closet and fill it with a change of clothes, a pair of house slippers, a dog-eared book on Greek philosophy from his nightstand, as well as a pre-packed toiletry bag I found in his bathroom.
There’s a depressing quietude in the air tonight. The night sky blanketing his living room in darkness, nothing but the tick of the walnut clock on his fireplace mantel.
It doesn’t seem right being here without him.
I pass through the kitchen and take a peek at the menus stuck to the side of his refrigerator to get a feel for what he likes. There’s a Mediterranean place not far from here and a handful of entrees are circled in blue ink. Easy enough. I call and place an order.
Heading out, I lock his door behind me but when I turn to make my way to the elevator, I’m face to face with a vaguely familiar set of icy-blue eyes belonging to a man with coal-black hair, shiny and slicked back. He wears dark gray jeans, ripped, and suede jacket that fills my nostrils with the tang of tanned leather. A thinner, more menacing version of Bennett.
“Bennett home?” His words are breathy, his hands tremoring as they rest on his hips. If I had to guess, this is his brother.
The brother with whom there’s bad blood …
Dark circles nest below his squinted eyes as he waits for my response.
“No.” I leave it at that. If Bennett hasn’t told him he’s in the hospital, I’m sure as heck not going to.
“I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?” His watchful gaze dips to the duffel bag hanging from my shoulder, mahogany leather with Bennett’s monogram stitched into the side in black thread.
“I’m sorry.” I turn, continuing my journey to the elevator, when I’m joined by his footsteps.
“Excuse me. I didn’t catch your name?”
I stop in my tracks, but I don’t turn to face him.
“Where are you going with my brother’s things?” He points to the duffel, his brows furrowed as if he demands an answer.
“I need to get going …” I continue to the elevator, punching the call button and exhaling a silent prayer of gratitude when the doors part immediately. Fortunately, Bennett’s brother doesn’t climb aboard—he stares me down with a peculiar expression I couldn’t read if I tried.
“Tell him to call Errol,” he says as the doors begin to close. “Tell him it’s extremely urgent. Please.”
Twenty-Eight
Bennett
* * *
My phone vibrates across the tray table. I yank it off the charger. “Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s me,” my investigator says on the other end.
“Any luck with the texts?”
“Nah. Not yet. Still working on it. Her phone was … antiquated … so it’s taking more legwork than I anticipated, but anyway, I was calling you back on that other thing you wanted me to look into? The heart donor thing?”
Weeks ago, when he’d given me Astaire’s background report it included a copy of her fiancé’s obituary. His death date was January seventh—the same day as my transplant. The only information I was given was that he was twenty-five and had been involved in a car accident. His name was confidential. I’ve never given much credence to coincidences before, but this one was too unnerving to ignore.
“Do you have a name for me?”
“I do. Now you didn’t hear this from me because I don’t want to get my source canned. Don’t go contacting the family or doing anything crazy, all right?”