Chapter 6 #2
He wheeled himself out of the room, and only then did I allow myself to grip the edge of the blanket so tightly that my nails hurt.
Dr. Foster examined me, checked the IV, and asked questions I answered through clenched teeth.
The pain gradually receded, leaving emptiness, sticky fear, and weakness behind.
"You cannot get upset," she said at last, adjusting the blanket.
"Did everyone conspire to finish me off with jokes today?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I. The news has announced that I'm practically dead after a nervous breakdown, my husband is hunting me like a problem, his mistress is wearing my life jacket, my mother-in-law wants my signatures, and you're telling me not to get upset.
That's like advising someone not to get wet while she's drowning. "
Dr. Foster rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily.
"Then at least stop torturing yourself with that phone. Your baby doesn't need justice right now. Your baby needs blood flow."
I fell silent.
Just like that. With one medical phrase, she put me in my place better than any order could have.
Blood flow. Not revenge. Not truth. Not honor.
Life first. A small, stubborn, still nearly impossible life that had held on inside me through water, cold, impact, betrayal, and the news. I nodded. Dr. Foster softened.
"It's very early, so we have to be cautious. But there is a chance. And the chance will be better if you stop turning yourself into a battlefield every minute."
"Too late. The battlefield is already inside me."
"Then at least don't shoot your own ally."
She left, taking the phone with her. She did not ask.
She simply took it away the way one takes scissors from a child.
I should have protested, but I had no strength left.
The room became quiet. Not cozy. Simply quiet.
I lay there and watched the light from the window move slowly across the ceiling.
The wooden beams were dark, broad, and old.
In Adrian's house, the ceilings pressed down with their luxury.
Here, the ceiling held firm. A strange difference my body understood before I found words for it.
I had almost fallen asleep when voices sounded outside the door. One was Andrew's, rough and familiar. The second was Graham's, low. The third belonged to a stranger, a man with a clipped voice. I tensed. The door was not fully closed, and fragments reached me.
"...the police are at the gate. Mercer's people are with them."
"Don't let them into the house."
"They've issued an alert for a woman. They're asking whether anyone washed ashore here."
"I'll personally account for everyone who washes up on my property."
"Graham, this isn't just some local patrol officer. There's an NYPD deputy chief here from Manhattan. Very polite. Very expensive-looking."
"Especially don't let him in."
I sat up. Too quickly. The room tilted, but I clenched my teeth and held on.
The police were at the gate. Adrian's people.
They were already here. Fast. Of course they were fast. Adrian knew how to lock down an area when he needed to recover an asset.
A wife he believed dead had suddenly become an asset with a high risk of exposure.
I lowered my feet to the floor, and the cold struck my soles.
Instantly, I remembered the water. Nausea rose, but I stubbornly stood.
A warm gray robe that belonged to someone else lay over a chair.
I pulled it on over the nightshirt and made my way to the door with one hand against the wall.
The hallway was long and dim, with portraits on the walls and the smell of medicine in the air.
Voices came from the foyer below. I followed them, every step echoing through the weakness in my knees, the pulling ache in my belly, and a wild, nearly sweet fury.
They had come for me. They had decided they could come even here.
Even into the home of the man who had pulled me from the river.
Even while I could barely stand. Even while my baby was holding on by the words for now.
Wonderful. That meant I truly was alive.
They do not search this quickly for the dead.
I stopped on the landing and looked down into the foyer.
Graham sat below in his wheelchair, but there was not one drop of weakness in his position.
Three men stood opposite him, two in plain clothes and one in uniform.
Kyle hovered behind them. His hair was no longer wet, his suit was fresh, and his face was pale and guilty but impeccably groomed.
The mere sight of him made something contract painfully in my chest. Kyle had been there.
He had seen the lifeboat. He had seen the bag.
He had seen me. And he had stayed silent.
Now he had come for me with Adrian's people.
"Mr. Lawson, we understand your reluctance to become involved in a media spectacle," the uniformed man was saying. "But there is a chance the missing woman made it to shore in this area. We need to search the house."
"No."
"We have an official request."
"Show me."
The man held out a paper. Graham did not even take it. Andrew did, skimmed it, and snorted.
"This covers the shoreline, outbuildings, and dock. Not the house."
"We can get a warrant that does."
"Then get one."
Kyle stepped forward.
"Mr. Lawson, Adrian Mercer personally asks for your cooperation. His wife is missing. He's in a serious condition."
I nearly laughed out loud. A serious condition. Imagine that. Apparently, saving your mistress in another woman's life jacket was emotionally exhausting.
Graham turned his head toward Kyle.
"Tell Adrian Mercer that if his condition is serious, he should check into a hospital. I hear he owns several."
"You don't understand." Kyle lowered his voice. "If Lana Mercer is alive and she is here, she needs medical attention. She may not be rational after what she's been through."
There it was.
Not rational.