CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IVY
T here’s an incessant beeping, intent on frying my nerves. And a whirring sound.
Everything is white, the kind of white that might shine near the heavens. The kind that blurs and blinds.
And that’s with my lids shut because they refuse to open.
My bones are stiff, muscles aching. I don’t know how to mark the time. How long have I been here? Unmoving.
Asleep but awake.
Imprisoned in a constant state of confusion.
Sometimes, I hear voices. Most I don’t recognize.
Except my mom’s. I hear my mom’s voice. Her cries.
I feel her touches. On my hair, my cheek, my hands.
She covers me with blankets. I’m always cold. So cold.
And she knows.
She’s angry now, arguing with someone. Yelling. She never raises her voice. It isn’t ladylike or proper.
I love that about her—her composure and self-control, how she can care for people, juggle tasks, and entertain, all while having the grace of a 1950s sitcom housewife, no matter the circumstances. Elegance at its finest.
“She was supposed to have woken up by now. I want answers.” Her tone is woven with warning, fierce. So unlike her. My father would be so proud.
I wish I could open my eyes for her, but something keeps pulling me under. Like I’m drifting into the deepest parts of the sea, too heavy to swim or float. Sinking. It’s him. My father. He’s calling me to his office.
Fourth-grade parent-teacher conferences were last night.
I always try my best in school, but sometimes, I can’t focus on what the teachers are saying.
I enter my father’s office, dropping into the chair I like to sit in.
My feet dangle, so I swing them, watching the buckles on my shoes flap with a hypnotic clack. Soothing.
He takes the chair beside me instead of the one at his desk. “How’s my girl?”
“I’m good, Daddy. I think. Am I in trouble?”
“Quite the opposite.” He grins. He always makes me feel better, even when I mess up.
“Our shortcomings can shout to the world that we’re at a disadvantage in some capacity, Ivanna.
Perhaps that’s true at times. But when you recognize your strengths and weaknesses, you control the narrative.
People will dismiss you based on what they believe your deficiency to be, which means mastering it will leave you with the upper hand. ”
I like that he talks to me like a grown-up, but sometimes, the meaning is lost on me. I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “I’m not sure I understand, Daddy.”
He squeezes my leg. “That’s okay, angel. Let me try another way. What do your teachers often report about you?”
A shameful groan falls from me as I roll my lips in. “That I get lost in my mind, am often late and zoned out.”
“That’s right,” he says with an encouraging smile. “Later, after zoning out, do you ever remember something the teacher said?”
My feet kick back and forth, the leather of my shoes swishing with a satisfying whirring rhythm as I think about his question. “Sometimes, I guess. Yes. Like when I’m doing my homework in the evening, sometimes, her instructions hit me even though my thoughts were drifting when she gave them.”
He springs up from his chair with a pat on my head. “That’s right. You process things differently, Ivanna. It takes time for your mind to register the information, but it’s still in there. ”
“But that’s bad,” I say, remembering how Mrs. Tucker’s face twists and reddens when she snaps her fingers at me and tells me I’m not paying attention. “That’s why she gets frustrated.”
His face softens, his lips tipping into a frown. Saddened by what I said. “It’s why she gets frustrated, but it isn’t bad. People are often critical of variances they don’t understand. But we’re going to hone it into your greatest asset.”
“How?” I ask.
“By learning how to recover the information you and everyone else thinks you’re missing. But let it be our secret. Don’t tell anyone what you can do.”
“I won’t,” I confirm.
“Good, angel. We’ll start practicing right away.”
My father and I are in the kitchen, eating bowls of ice cream. His guests left a little while ago.
He taps his spoon on his bowl with a tink. “Think, sweet girl. You were in the corner with your book, and your mother and I were with the Palmers. What did we talk about?”
I’m not sure why Dad always wants me to do this, but he seems to think it’s important. We’ve been playing this little game for a few years now. I turned thirteen three months ago, and I think I’m getting pretty good at it.
Closing my eyes, I try to think about the evening.
I was reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows , imagining what it would be like to be magical and capable of conquering even the darkest evil.
Harry was so ordinary, and yet he rose. He shook everything up.
He belonged. I’ve never really had that feeling, like I fit.
Except with Celeste. She looks the part, but still doesn’t fit.
She’s the polished Celeste to the world, but always wild Lettie to me.
Other than her and my parents, books make me feel like I belong, heaping comfort like a weighted blanket.
The chatter tonight was a monotonous hum in the background.
I wanted my headphones to block everyone out because the noise made me anxious, but I knew Dad didn’t want me to use them.
So, I concentrated on the words on the page, the visions dancing in my mind’s eye, while Mrs. Palmer gabbed on and on.
“She …” I bite my lip, choosing the piece of the conversation that needs plucked. “Mr. and Mrs. Palmer want you and Mom to go to the lake house.”
His eyes brighten. “Good. Anything else?”
My head spins, trying to remember, when it suddenly washes over me.
“May nineteenth. Mr. Palmer said it should work for you because you don’t have a full schedule that day.
” I scoop a spoonful of butter pecan ice cream into my mouth, pondering the conversation more.
“How does he know when you have patients?”
“Exactly.” My father beams. “Mr. Palmer has been having an inappropriate relationship with my secretary. And you, Ivanna, identified his one slipup in a night full of jabbering.”
I drop my spoon, astounded by that realization—people’s darkest secrets lay bare inside innocent chitchat and relaxed moments when they forget to hide.
My eyes flit to his. “Why is this so important for me to learn, Dad?”
He props his elbows on the island, stealing a bite of my ice cream since his is gone. And he smiles—the smile that is only for me. He has a special one for my mother too. But the one reserved for me is full of pride and adoration. It makes me feel invincible.
“Information is more powerful than a bullet, Ivanna. I’m arming you.”
My eyelids fly open. Wells. Liam.
The bullet. And shooting. The blood and screaming.
The light pierces my eyes until they water all over my temples.
“Wells?” I whisper. It takes every bit of strength I have. My throat is dry, tongue heavy, head pounding.
My eyes float over the room. The beeping and whirring are above me. Machines. A prickling pinch in my hand—IV. My skin is pale and dry, bluish and chilled. And it all smells sterile and sick at once.
“Ivanna,” my mother shrieks. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl.” Her hand slides over my cheek while her other frantically presses buttons near my shoulder.
“Wells?” I chirp again. I want Wells.
“Yes, sweetheart, you’ll be well soon.” She nods, and her lips twitch with a maternal devotion. “It’s all okay now.”
No. Why doesn’t she understand what I’m asking? My head is so groggy, the light is painful, and my voice is not cooperating. I’m so thirsty.
I try again. “Husband,” I pant. “Wells.”
She flaps her nonsense hand at me and brushes some matted hair off my jaw. “It’s all been taken care of, Ivanna. What a weird thing to wake up worrying about. Honestly, let’s focus on getting you up and moving first.”
She’s not making any sense.
A nurse barrels into the room. Her smile stretches across her face, and she squeezes my mother’s arm. “Oh, happy day,” she croons, tapping at the machine next to the bed. “So glad you could join us, Ivanna. My name is Nurse Nelly. Your mama and I have been waiting on you.”
“Wells? Liam?” I ask, hoping she’ll get my husband and tell me what happened to Liam. My heart sinks as the memory assaults me. I watched him fade away, but I need someone to say it. To tell me he’s really gone. Tears stream down my cheeks at the thought.
“We’re going to get the doctor in here. You don’t worry your pretty head about a thing,” Nelly says.
This is making me dizzy. Maybe my words aren’t clear. I study them both as they scurry about, tittering gleefully, until a doctor arrives, examining my eyes with a tiny flashlight. I follow it, as I know he wants me to, and wait patiently to ask him my questions.
“Hi, Ivanna. I’m Dr. Barret. Your father was an invaluable mentor to me in my early years, so I feel privileged to be here with you. How are you feeling?” he asks while glancing at the clock and checking my pulse.
“Heavy,” I say.
He chuckles. “Okay. I’ll take that as a win if it’s your primary complaint. Do you know what happened to you?”
I think back. Nothing is clear after running away from Liam. Why did I leave him?
I shake my head and swallow a small amount of saliva, nearly choking on it. “No.” I cough.
The nurse appears out of nowhere on the other side of the bed, rubbing an ice chip on my lips. I lap at the cool water melting into my mouth while the doctor addresses me.
“You took a bad fall, Ivanna. There was significant swelling. We had to put you into a medically induced coma to let you heal and decided to bring you out of it a few days ago.”
A coma? Jesus, how long have I been here? “What day is it?” I puff.
“Today is December tenth,” he shares.
I heave a breath. I’ve been out for a while, and the guys aren’t here. Shit. Were they hurt too?
“Ten days,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, index finger bent over his chin. “In December, yes. You’ve been in a coma for a little over thirteen weeks.”
What? No. I heard wrong. “Days,” I correct.
He sighs, a regretful expression coasting over his features. “Weeks, Ivanna. Since September sixth.”
I can’t breathe. My chest is cracking, a spasm rocking through it. “Wells. I want Wells,” I cry and suck in the air with a whistling hiccup.
My mother wipes her bloodshot eyes with a tissue, tears cascading down her cheeks. And bags. She never has purple bags under her eyes like that. Nelly wraps an arm around her shaking shoulders, soothing her.
Peering back at me, a deep divot between his eyes smooshing his forehead, Dr. Barret straightens his lips into a line. Not a smile. Not a frown. “Tell me more about why you’re upset, Ivanna. What are you asking?”
Strength courses through my arms. Anger rising. “I want my husband. Wells.” Gravel scratches my vocal cords, but that was clear. I heard it. There’s no way they can’t understand me.
The doctor twists around to my mother, and she and the nurse share his baffled grimace. She shakes her head at him with a sigh.
My jaw tenses, hands fisting. The IV tape jabs at my skin with a needling prod, stretching until tiny cracks creep into the dryness. I grunt. “And Ty and Gage. Are they okay? Did Liam survive?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he sits in a chair beside the bed, his almond eyes skating all over my face in the curiosity a doctor holds when scientifically intrigued. “Can you tell me your full name?”
I huff, annoyed he’s asking me such stupid questions and not answering my important ones. “Ivanna Kingston Wells.”
His lips purse. “Can you tell me about the Wells name? Where does that come from?”
“My husband.” I shoot a glare at my mother, not understanding why she’s staying silent instead of explaining this, but she’s crying.
I clear my throat. “Gavin Wells. We were married in September at La Lune Noire in New Orleans. We live with our three friends—Ty, Liam, and Gage—in Starlit Hills. Liam was shot at our home. Please tell me how he’s doing.
” My breathing staggers, and my heart beats erratically.
The doctor strokes his chin, eyes growing heavy as he glances between my mother and me.
“I’m sorry, Ivanna. Comas are tricky things.
Sometimes, patients have extensive dreams. Some even have nightmares.
It can be a challenge to differentiate between what was imagined and what is in fact reality.
” He sets a serious gaze on me. “You are Ivanna Kingston, daughter of Thomas and Natasha Kingston. Labor Day weekend, you were running down the steps during an argument with your mother. You tumbled down the last several stairs, banging your head on the way and ultimately hitting it on the marble floor.”
“No.” I search my mother’s face. Why is she doing this? “No. That’s not possible. And you know it! Mom, tell him how fucked up that is. You were in Switzerland and then Italy, France, and Greece. We talked. I got married. I sent you pictures.”
She drops her traitorous blue eyes to the floor. The machine next to me starts beeping faster, mimicking my pulse.
My whole body is trembling. “I want my fucking husband. Right! Now!”
My mother is sobbing, hands covering her face.
The rage in my veins pumps like a steroid, strengthening me with the same venomous energy surging through one of those test-tube villains.
I rip my IV out, ignoring the sharp sting as blood seeps from the wound, and throw myself out of the bed.
My knees buckle. Dr. Barret catches me, but I shove him away and stumble toward the door.
But they’re all on me. More people trickle into the room. Gripping my arms and barking orders back and forth as I thrash and scream.
Bite and spit and kick.
It takes four of them to exhaust me. They drag me back to the bed, restraining me while I growl and shout for Wells over and over. And Ty. And Gage. Please help me.
Are they with Liam? Did he survive?
My throat is raw and bloody from screaming, sweat coating my skin, limbs shaking. They strap me down as I wail.
What kind of nightmare is this?
A prick in the neck. My veins run ice cold, my entire body breaking into a violent shiver. Teeth chattering. Their faces and voices and lies and torture grow fuzzy, fading into that blinding heavenly light.
And my world returns to a suffocating stillness.