My eyebrows go up. “You’re a snitch?”
“An informant.” He makes a sour face. “Snitch is such a childish word.”
“Tattletale,” I tease, making him grin again. Leave it up to my father to try to make something morally questionable sound sophisticated. “What time is it?” I look around for a clock. “Is Preston out of surgery yet? Can I see him?”
Ivan scoots closer to the bed to cover my hand.
“Darling.” He swallows. “They thought it would be better for family to tell you the news…”
“What news?”
“Preston didn’t make it.” Four words. Flat. Matter of fact.
In a short time, I’ve gotten better at social cues and reading people. Body language and facial expressions are fascinating.
I’m still becoming familiar with genuine compassion, and it’s weird to see it coming from a hardened criminal like Ivan.
Some people might think my father is a cold man with the way he speaks, but I see the sympathy in his eyes. The eyes that are nearly identical to mine. I might be imagining it, but I think I even see a sheen of tears there. The only time my mother—err, Loralee—ever cried was when she was trying to manipulate me into feeling bad for her so I’d comply with whatever she wanted me to do.
I snatch my hand away from Ivan’s. “That’s not true. That can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry. He—”
Flinging back the blankets, I swing my legs off the bed. Getting up too fast is a bad idea because it makes my head spin, and I have to grasp the side of the bed to steady myself.
Ivan stands. “What are you doing?”
“Going to find Preston.”
He grabs my shoulders. “He’s gone. His internal injuries were too—”
“You’re wrong. Preston can’t die.”
I know I sound irrational. No one is invincible. But to think that the man who rescued me, the man I married, the man who’s shown me more about life in the past several days than I’ve known in my entire lifetime… is just gone?
I can’t accept that.
“It’s a conspiracy,” I claim, shoving Ivan away and ripping out my IV.
I barely register the sting on the back of my hand. Blood leaks from where the needle had been, but I don’t bother trying to stop the flow. It drips from my fingertips as I get to the door, and it smears across the handle when I wrench it open, making the metal slippery.
The two police officers startle when they see me. Jen is sitting in a chair across the hall. She shoots to her feet and calls for a nurse.
“I need to see Preston,” I demand. “Now.”
As Jen approaches, she puts herself between the guards, blocking my way out. “Rosalie, you need to get back in the bed.”
“Not until I see him! It’s not real.”
Not real, not real.
Tell me something real, babe.
Any second, I expect Preston to push his way into the room and say he’s fine. He’ll tell me he loves me, and that we’re going to be so happy together. We’re going to be a family.
Instead, in a group effort, the officers crowd me, forcing me backward. Ivan’s behind me. He’s saying something softly, probably trying to calm the situation, but everyone’s just pissing me off. A nurse comes in, making the room feel ten times smaller with so many people around me.
They’re not going to let me out.
I panic. And I get really angry.
Going over to the vitals monitor, I shove it to the side, knocking it off its wheels. It hits the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Next, I attack the IV stand. I throw it so hard it makes a dent in the wall.
I’m still bleeding. Red drops and streaks decorate the floor and other places in the room. I think about the red that soaked my shirt when I held it to Preston’s gunshot wound.
He lost so much blood. Too much.
Maybe they’re telling the truth.
No, no, no.
I don’t even realize I’m screaming the words until multiple hands drag me backward, and the air is nearly knocked out of me when I’m pinned onto the bed. My yelling gets cut off, and like an animal, I growl and thrash.
More nurses pile in.
At least four of them are restraining me when the doctor comes into view with a syringe. I try to scoot away from him, but I can’t. Someone’s got my arms and legs locked down with a freakish amount of power. You wouldn’t think the petite nurses are that strong, but apparently, they train for this shit.
“All right, Melody,” the doctor says calmly, and the name sounds all wrong. “Let’s make you feel better.” He shines a light in my eyes, then wipes my upper arm with something cold. “This will help.”
There’s a slight sting as he pierces my skin with the needle.
“I’m sorry,” Ivan says as he stands back and lets the staff work. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to spew obscenities and hateful words. Anything to make the heartache leave my body.
But my tongue won’t work.
Gasping sobs work their way up my throat, but I don’t feel like I’m the one making the sounds.
I don’t feel like I’m inside myself anymore. I’m detached. Floating.
And I’m so tired.
My mind is foggy. My limbs are heavy. My thoughts scatter, ebbing and flowing like a rushing river.
During my struggle to stay conscious, I realize the nurses are working on getting my IV back in on my right hand while my other arm is strapped to the bedrail with a padded cuff.
Jen and Ivan are at the foot of the bed, talking quietly, but it doesn’t look like a hostile conversation. If anything, they’re friendly. Isn’t that funny? My father, big mafia boss, chatting it up with an FBI agent like she couldn’t arrest him tomorrow for all the shit he does.
I’d never tell on him, though. Even if they questioned me for hours, I’d keep my mouth shut. Because he’s the only family I have left.
He’s the only family I have left.
Because if my mother abducted me, she’s not really my mother. And if Preston’s gone, that means I’m a widow.
A tear rolls down my temple.
I thought I was lonely before. When I was trapped in that house, in that attic, I thought that was rock bottom.
I was wrong.
This is the lowest low. I might as well be drowning all over again, and this time, there’s no one to pull me out.
Two Months Later
One place I can’t follow Preston? Into death. Well, I guess I could, but I know how he felt about suicide, and to be honest, dying isn’t all that appealing to me either.
No one around me seems to believe me, though.
Everyone hovers now.
I was kept at the hospital for five days on suicide watch after I found out Preston had died. Talk about being treated like a mental patient. Admittedly, alternating between crying hysterically and thrashing against my bed restraints wasn’t a good way to get anyone to trust my state of mind. I think they were one step away from tossing me into a padded room.
But eventually, exhaustion and a constant flow of sedatives won. I became compliant. I ate when they told me to. I watched TV. I allowed visitors to come see me. A doctor removed the tracker, and I took medications without an argument.