Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
zane
The parking lot at Sunrise Manor is half empty at eight-thirty PM. I barely made it for the tail end of visiting hours. I’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes, staring at the building through my windshield, trying to remember the last time I was here.
Four months. Maybe five. Long enough that the guilt sits in my stomach like a rock.
The automatic doors slide open, and the smell of disinfectant hits me, along with the knowledge that the people within these walls aren’t coming home. Like Dad.
My gut clenches as I walk through a lobby with beige furniture arranged like someone’s idea of a comfortable living room. It’s designed to be welcoming when it’s anything but.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist looks up from her computer.
“I’m here to see Robert Christensen. Room 237.”
She types something, frowns at her screen. “Visiting hours end at nine. And you are?”
“His son.”
“I’ll need to see some ID.”
I hand over my driver’s license, watch her compare the photo to my face like I might be lying about who I am. Which is fair, considering I haven’t been here often enough for anyone to remember me.
“Just so you know, he’s been having a rough evening. Sundowning’s been worse lately, and he got agitated during dinner.” She hands back my license. “Try to keep the visit calm.”
Sundowning. The word makes my chest ache. It means his brain gets more scrambled as the day goes on, and evening visits are when he’s at his worst.
Room 237 is at the end of a long hallway, and I can hear the television blaring before I reach the door.
I knock, but there’s no answer over the noise. I push the door open and find him sitting in his recliner, wearing pajamas and a cardigan that’s buttoned wrong. He stares at the TV with the kind of blank concentration that means he’s not really seeing it.
“Hey, Dad.”
He slowly turns toward me, his eyes squinting, and for a moment there’s no recognition on his face. None. He looks at me like I’m a stranger who just walked into his room.
“Who are you?” His voice is sharp. “I didn’t ask for anyone to come in here.”
My heart sinks. “It’s me, Dad. Zane. Your son.”
“My son?” He squints harder, confusion mixing with fear. “Zane’s twelve years old. You’re not Zane.”
Twelve. Jesus. He thinks I’m still a kid, probably remembers me from when I was learning to skate on the pond behind our house.
“I grew up, Dad. It’s been a long time since I was twelve.”
“That’s impossible. Zane was just here yesterday. Or maybe last week.” He’s getting agitated now, hands gripping the arms of his chair tight. “Where is he? What did you do with my son?”
“I am your son.” I move closer, keeping my voice calm. “I know I look different, but it’s me. I promise.”
“No. No, you’re lying.” His breaths are labored now. “Zane has lighter hair. He’s small. You’re too big, too old. Get out of my room.”
I find the remote on the floor next to his chair and turn down the volume. He recoils., his eyes wide.
“Dad, look at me. Really look.” I pull out my wallet, show him my driver’s license. “Zane Christensen. That’s my name.”
He takes the license with shaking hands and stares at it for a long time. I watch his face as he tries to process the information and make sense of why some stranger has his son’s name.
“This says you’re thirty-two,” he says finally. “Zane’s not thirty-two. He’s just a boy.”
“I know it’s confusing. The doctors said your memory might play tricks on you.”
“What doctors? I don’t need doctors. There’s nothing wrong with me.” The license falls from his hands. “I want you to leave. I want to see my wife. Where’s Margaret?”
Margaret. My mother’s name. She’s been dead for six years, but in his condition, she might as well be in the next room.
“Mom’s not here right now, Dad.”
“Why not? She always comes to see me. Every day, she comes.” His voice rises again, the confusion morphing into distress. “Did something happen to her? Is she hurt?”
Fuck, this is the worst part. Watching him relive her death over and over, or forget it completely and wonder why she’s not visiting. The doctors said it’s better not to remind him, but lying feels like another kind of cruelty.
“She’s fine. She just couldn’t make it tonight.”
“Oh.” He seems to accept this. His attention drifts back to the television. “When is she coming? I want to tell her about the man who came to see me.”
“What man?”
“Nice man. Friendly. He knew about Zane, knew we used to live in Detroit.” Dad’s voice gets softer, more confused. “Or maybe I dreamed that. Sometimes I can’t tell anymore.”
A chill runs down my spine. “What did this man look like?”
“I don’t remember. Dark hair, maybe? He had a nice smile.” Dad picks at a loose thread on his blue cardigan. “He asked about Zane. Wanted to know if he still played hockey.”
My blood ices in my veins.
Someone’s been here, asking questions about me.
“Dad, this is important. When did this man visit?”
“I don’t know. Today? Yesterday? Time doesn’t work right anymore.” He looks at me with sudden clarity, like the fog lifted for just a moment. “Are you really my son?”
The question nearly breaks me, my heart aching at the flicker of recognition in his tired eyes. “Yeah, Dad. I’m really your son.”
“You got so tall. And your voice is different.” He reaches out tentatively to touch my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Something’s wrong with my head.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“I feel confused all the time now.” His voice gets smaller, more uncertain. “The nurses keep telling me things, but I can’t remember them. Are you really my boy?”
“Yeah, I’m really your boy.”
“Good. That’s good.” He pats my hand like I’m still twelve. “Margaret will be so happy when she gets home from work.”
The brief moment of recognition is already slipping away, replaced by the delusion that Mom is still alive, still coming home every day.
“The facility is helping you stay safe.”
“Safe from what? From myself?” He laughs. “I’m safe here. Your mom will be home soon. We take care of each other.”
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
He mentioned you to our friend. Seems proud of his boy, the hockey player. Would hate for anything to change.
My jaw damn near hits the polished tile floor. Someone’s been here, talking to my father, pretending to be friendly while gathering intelligence. And now they’re letting me know they can reach him anytime they want.
“Are you sure you’re my son?” Dad asks, his focus now fully on the television.
“Yes, Dad.”
How the fuck could I be so careless by coming tonight?
I just needed to see him, to talk to him, to remind myself what’s at stake. And now I’ve put him in more danger.
Someone knows about Dad’s condition, knows exactly how vulnerable he is. They’ve been in this room, talked to him while he was confused and frightened, probably got him to share information without him even knowing what he was doing.
“I should probably go,” I say, moving toward the door.
“Okay.” He doesn’t ask me to stay, doesn’t seem upset. In his mind, I’m just another stranger who stopped by his room.
“Will you remember that I came to see you?”
“I don’t remember much of anything anymore.” He looks at me with those cloudy eyes, and for a second I think he might recognize me again. “But I’ll try.”
I’m halfway down the hallway when a nurse in pink scrubs stops me.
“You’re Mr. Christensen’s son, right? I’m Linda.” She glances back toward his room, then lowers her voice. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
My stomach drops. “Is everything okay?”
“He’s fine, medically speaking. But I wanted to let you know that he had a visitor yesterday.” She pulls out a small notepad and flips through pages. “A man in his forties said he was an old friend from Detroit. Spent about an hour with your father.”
The chill from the anonymous text deepens. “Did he give a name?”
“If he did, your father doesn’t remember it. But he’s been talking about this visitor all day. Says the man knew about his son who played hockey.” Linda looks at me seriously. “The thing is, we don’t usually allow unscheduled visits. Families have to approve anyone who’s not on the list.”
“I never approved anyone.”
“That’s what I figured. Security’s been a little lax lately.
We have a new girl at the front desk, and she doesn’t always check properly.
I was off yesterday and when I came in today, I saw this on the visitor log.
I can assure you that it won’t happen again.
I’ve already spoken to Security.” She closes the notepad.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course. And Mr. Christensen? Your father may not remember your visits, but they matter. Patients always seem calmer after family time.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and head for the exit.
I make it to the parking lot, rage and guilt clawing at my chest. Ten thousand dollars a month to keep him in a place where strangers can walk in and question him while he’s too confused to protect himself. Ten thousand dollars I don’t have without Morrison’s help.
The drive home is a blur of streetlights and anxiety. Every car behind me could be FBI or syndicate members. The anonymous message burns in my pocket like evidence of how completely fucked I am.
Someone knows about Dad. Someone’s been watching. And if they can reach him there, in the one place that’s supposed to be safe, then nowhere is protected.
An eerie feeling settles over me when I unlock the door to my hotel room. It’s too quiet, too still. I check the locks on the windows and secure the door.
I drop into a chair, pour a glass of whiskey, and stare at my phone. The anonymous text is still there, a reminder that my father’s safety hangs in the balance.
Morrison wants potential targets by tomorrow. Five teammates whose personal struggles I’m supposed to catalog and weaponize, five guys who can be used as bait.
The syndicate wants Tate. They’ve been watching him, waiting for the right moment to make their approach. They know that threatening my father is the fastest way to make sure I cooperate.
And one anonymous text proves everything I’ve done to keep my dad safe has only made him a bigger target.