“I need my IV stand,” Doc says. “In my room. In the fridge you’ll find various bags of blood. I need the one marked O positive.”
“What?” I blurt. He keeps blood? I look at Beau, who looks equally surprised by this. “You know all of our blood types, don’t you?” I recall now, Doc requesting Daniel’s a few weeks ago in St. Lucia, and I thought it a bit random. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what blood type my son is and thought no more of it. I make a mental note to make that a priority.
“Indeed, I do,” Doc replies, injecting something into Brad’s line. “Nice and quick, please.”
“I’ll go,” Fury says, leaving the room to fetch Doc’s requests.
“Will he be okay?” I ask, crouching beside Brad, looking over his pasty skin, his hollow cheeks.
“Just as soon as we’ve topped up his veins.”
I nod and look back when Beau touches my shoulder. “We should prepare for the arrivals.”
I’m blank. Then— “They’re bringing the women here?” I stand, stunned, and Beau nods, just as I hear more wheels across the gravel. “Oh God,” I whisper, feeling wholly unstable. Thinking about ten women drugged and mistreated is one thing. Seeing them is another.
“You've got this,” Beau says, leading me out of the room. And there she is, doing what we both do best. Reassuring each other, talking sense, but struggling to do that for ourselves.
We approach Fury, who’s holding a bag of blood at arm’s length while dragging along a metal stand. “Coming through,” he says, as we move to the side of the corridor, letting him pass. My eyes follow him all the way to the door and through it.
“Where are James and Danny?” I ask Beau without looking at her.
“Come on,” she says gently, not answering me, coaxing me away. “What can I smell?”
“You won’t want to eat it.”
“Smells good.”
“Well, it looks atrocious. Have you heard from Ollie yet?” I ask, diverting from my own trauma, if only briefly.
“Nothing. I’ve reached out a few times, but he’s not answering. And it’s not like I’m being given any space to visit him, is it?”
We both know Beau could break away if she wanted to, which tells me she’s nervous to do that, and not because of her safety. It’s because she’s scared of what she’ll find out. “And the detective?”
She shakes her head. “I already dislike her, and I hate myself for it.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s doing what I would do in her situation.” She turns a small smile my way. “Funny how my instincts have changed, huh?”
“No.” I laugh a little. The cop’s still in there. It’s just mixed up with a bit of crime these days, making it a weirdly immoral moral cocktail. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?” And here’s me ready to hold her up when I’m collapsing over my own traumas.
“They’ve asked if I want to see him.”
I’m confused, and I can’t hide it.
“My father,” she goes on. “They’ve asked me if I want to see him before I lay him to rest.”
I’m the worst friend. “Will you?”
“I think . . .” She nibbles her lip, unsure. “Something tells me I should. I couldn’t with Mom because, well . . .”
Because there was nothing left that Beau would want to see. I slip an arm around her shoulder. “Do you want me to come? If you decide to go, of course.”
“I think James will want to do that.” She gives me a sardonic look. “He needs me to need him at the moment. I’ll think about it. I don’t even know if I want to. The funeral will be hard enough and”—she looks unsure for a moment—“I have absolutely nothing to wear. What should I wear?”
I won’t ask her what she wore for her mother’s funeral. Something tells me she wouldn’t remember. “Then we’ll go shopping.” We keep saying it, and it never happens. I need to make it happen.
“Shopping? To buy something for me to wear to my father’s funeral? Great. I hate shopping at the best of times.”
Of course. Absolute worst friend. “Or . . .”
Beau smiles softly. “Actually, no, we should. I need to keep up my momentum when it comes to busy spaces.”
There it is. She so desperately doesn’t want to go back, and I’ll do my best not to let her. I take her hand and hold it up, flashing her ring. “So when can we start planning the wedding? I need some joy in my life.”
She looks at my belly, and I cringe. As a friend, I’m on fire today.
“Stop it,” Beau snaps firmly. “Stop watching every little thing you say about babies or pregnancies or bumps or joy or death. Everything happens for a reason.”
Is that what she’s telling herself these days? I smile lamely as we take the stairs, and when the front door swings open and Goldie steams in with a woman across her arms—a woman with long dark hair—I freeze, losing my breath, seeing . . . me. Not being rescued, but unconscious. Helpless. “Oh God,” I whisper, taking hold of the gold handrail as Goldie stares up at me. Why? Why is she looking at me?
“Where?” she asks shortly, and I blink, shaking my head, as more women come through the door, all disheveled, all with ripped clothes, all looking lost, bewildered, and terrified.
“Rose, where?” Goldie asks, firm but also gently.
“The TV room,” I blurt, looking around me, as if seeking approval from someone that it was the right answer to give. “I . . . we . . . they . . . I need to check the bedrooms.” I finally convince my legs to take me down the rest of the stairs, thanking everything that Esther will be back in Miami imminently. My mother-in-law is a pro at taking care of houses and people. She’ll know what to do.
Goldie leads the line of women into the room, and I follow her there, clearing the enormous couches of scatter cushions to make room. “Doc’s busy with Brad.”
“How is he?” Otto asks, the last to enter after all the women and Ringo.
“Still unconscious. Blood loss.”
He nods, and when one of the young women looks at him, he tries his hardest to give her a friendly smile. If the whole situation wasn’t so tragic, it would be hilarious. He looks so awkward, as does Ringo, and Goldie doesn’t look all too comfortable either.
“There’s a pasta bake in the oven,” I say, ushering them out, looking at Beau, telling her she’s staying. “Tell Doc to come straight here when he’s done. Order some pizzas or something. And get some water.”
Otto stops at the door and looks back at me. “Esther here yet?” he asks.
“Very soon.” I force my brows not to raise and shut the door, facing the women. They still look utterly terrified, and in a moment of lucidity, I wonder if they think we’ve kidnapped them.
“Oh shit,” Beau says, joining my side. “They think we’ve kidnapped them.”
“English?” I ask, casting an eye across them all. “Anyone speak English?”
A few hands raise—I count three—and someone speaks up. A redhead. “I’m English,” she says, tucking her vibrant bobbed hair behind her ear. “From London.”