Chapter 43 Hannah
Hannah
I drive to the Swan like a wild woman, my mother chattering in my ear from the passenger seat the whole way. Her alternate reality is flip-flopping among various episodes of NCIS but mostly fixated on whichever one has her convinced Ziva needs to get more info from some PI.
The whole time, I keep trying to call Monica via my stereo’s Bluetooth, but she never answers.
It’s nearing ten at night, and when I pull up in front of the big skyscraper that showcases the sign for The Swan above an all-glass entry, I don’t even bother with self-parking.
I whip my Civic right in front of the valet booth on the right side of the building, skid to a screeching stop, and hop out of the driver’s side door with the engine still running.
I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get inside. My intuition mixed with the details I know about Gwen’s and Heather’s cases and the vague details Lana gave me are all I have to go off of.
Which, technically speaking, isn’t a lot. Fingers crossed all this panic and fear and adrenaline I currently have running through my system will enable me to locate Monica before something really bad happens.
I open my mother’s door with a quick hand, and she doesn’t ask any questions as she gets out of the passenger seat.
A young guy with light-blond hair steps up to greet us.
He’s dressed in a red-and-black valet uniform and a gold-plated name tag that reads Ryan.
His eyes are puzzled as he takes in our current attire—my mother in a nightgown with a sweater and a pair of house slippers and me wearing an old pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Clearly, we do not look like the Swan’s target audience, but if I were a betting woman, I’d guess Ryan here wouldn’t suspect that a possible murder is about to happen in one of the rooms inside.
“Can I help you?” he asks, and I jerk my head toward my still-running Civic.
“Park it wherever you want. We’ll be back to get it later.”
“I’m going to need a credit card to hold it,” he says, smiling at me in the same way those shop bitches smiled at Julia Roberts when she wanted to buy a cocktail dress.
“I’m kind of in a rush here,” I say, “but I swear, I’m good for it.”
“Ziva’s good for it, son,” my mother chimes in. “And if she’s not, Gibbs or Tony will cover her.”
“Excuse me?” Ryan questions, his attention now on my mother.
“Look, sonny boy, we’re here to investigate a murder,” she squabbles, and I quickly cut her off before she can get on her NCIS roll.
“Let me get my card,” I blurt out in a rush, tugging my mother along as I head back to my car. I don’t let go of her hand, even as I awkwardly reach into the passenger door and grab my purse. I snag the first credit card I can.
“Here you go!” I announce and toss it to him. “We’ll be back soon!”
I don’t even bother waiting around for Ryan or a valet ticket or . . . anything, for that matter. I just keep hold of my mom’s hand and head for the main entrance.
But as we round the corner of the building, I spot a familiar head of blond hair, and my heart kicks into high gear when I realize that the girl dressed in stilettos and a tight dress is Monica.
“Monica!” I shout toward her, but the noise coming from the busy Nashville street mutes my voice. She obliviously swings open the lobby doors and walks inside.
“Shit,” I mutter and pick up the pace. “We gotta run,” I tell my mom, and she goes right along with it.
“Let’s haul some ass, Ziva!” she cheers like we’re in the middle of the most exciting thing she’s ever been a part of. In her mind, we’re Ziva and Sherry trying to track down a killer. In her mind, everything will turn out just fine because Gibbs and Tony are probably right behind us.
But there’s no Gibbs or Tony. Just me and Sherry. Fuck.
We burst through the entrance doors in a big whoosh of warm spring air, and my eyes dart around the expansive lobby in search of Monica.
First, the fancy reception desk. Then, the small bar area that sits to our left.
Until my eyes latch on to the bank of elevators, where I see Monica’s head disappear behind the already-closing doors.
“Shit!” I shout, but I still run toward the elevator in a desperate hope that I can stop the damn thing like some kind of superhero. But banging my fists on the closed doors does nothing.
I try to call Monica again, but it’s no use. Though my eyes do fixate on the lit-up numbers of floors she is currently passing. And when I see it stop on the thirty-fifth floor, I start frantically tapping the call button.
Hands to my mother’s shoulders, I meet her gaze head-on. “Sherry, what I’m about to do is very dangerous. You need to stay here. Right here. In the lobby.”
“What about Gibbs and Tony?”
“They’re coming,” I lie. “That’s why I need you to stay here.”
She nods.
“You promise you’ll stay here.”
She nods again.
“You have to promise me, Sherry,” I demand. “I’m counting on you.”
“I promise, Ziva. I’ll stay here and keep watch.”
I squeeze her shoulders. “Good girl.”
A new elevator car arrives, and I nod toward a random Swan employee and point to my mother as I step on. “Please, keep an eye on her. I’m just running upstairs real quick to grab something. She has Alzheimer’s!” It’s the last thing I get out as the doors close in front of me.
Panic and fear and guilt and shame roll around inside my body as the car ascends, crossing floor after floor. On one hand, I need to get to Monica, but on the other, I feel so fucking guilty for leaving my poor mother in the lobby.
It’s a risk. That’s for fucking sure.
But all my mind could deduce is that Monica’s current risk is bigger. Life threatening.
Oh my God. Tears threaten to prick my eyes, but I blink them away. I will not break down. I will not do anything but stay strong and find Monica before something awful happens.
The elevator dings its arrival on floor thirty-five and I rush off, but I stop right in the middle of the main hallway, my head jerking back and forth as I try to figure out where Monica went.
My eyes latch on to a vision of a woman with blond hair walking into a hotel room at the very far end of the hallway on my right, and I sprint down there at full speed, yelling for Monica.
But Monica just steps into the room. All I hear is the faint click of the door before I can reach her.
Shit!
As I’m hauling ass toward the room, outright fear pricks at my stomach, and the realization that I just might be in way over my head becomes an all-consuming thought. And there’s only one person I want to call in this moment.
Only one person I know and trust to help me.
Quickly, I hit send on the call as I reach the door I think Monica went into. It’s ringing, and I’m listening as closely as I can for anything that sounds like my friend on the other side of the wood.
And when I hear “What are you doing?” I know that it’s Monica. I know that she’s in there.
“Hannah?” Dom’s voice pipes from the speaker. “I’m so glad—”
“Dom, I am really scared. I think I need your—” I start to say, but the door swings open violently, and an older woman with gray hair and matching gray eyes stares at me, her chest moving up and down with labored breaths.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks.
“Where is Monica?” I ask, but just as the last word leaves my lips, the woman makes an erratic movement with her hand, and before I know it, excruciating pain starts at the top of my head and rolls all the way down my spine.
Ow. Fuck.
My ears ring and my vision goes black, and then nothingness consumes me.