Chapter 6 Gabriel #2
She cranes her head, probably seeking the front door. When we reach the broken glass of the vase and a lamp, I stop her with a touch to her forearm. “Your feet are bare. May I carry you again, so you don’t cut yourself?”
I don’t want to manhandle her or steal her free will.
If she says no, then I’ll find another way.
Clean the floor first. The fact that I carried her inside against her will doesn’t feel good.
Not for either of us. If she were in her right mind, I’d never consider it.
But that was triage. I’m winging it and praying when I talk to her doctors later, they’ll give me guidance.
Either way, I’m not forcing her to do anything unless it’s to keep her from hurting herself.
She nods stiffly. This time, I pick her up in a bridal carry and bring her through the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. I can’t leave her alone while I pack and expect her to remain in the penthouse by the time I get back to her.
“I’ll make flight arrangements. You need socks and shoes.” I lower her to the large tufted ottoman near the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “It will take a few minutes, if you want to sit.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off me. Fair enough.
I don’t take mine off her for long either.
I retrieve her new phone from a drawer with a charging station inside and carry it over to her.
Maybe it’ll prove to her that she’s not a prisoner.
It’s worth a try to make her feel safe and comfortable. At the very least, it can’t hurt.
I crouch to her level and control my wince of pain. “We never recovered your last phone, but this one has your cloud data loaded onto it. I put the same style of clear cover on it for you. All your friends’ numbers are in your Favorites if you want to talk to them.”
She snatches it from my hand. I nod and return to packing, watching her uneasily in my periphery as I retrieve a suitcase from its shelf.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney types the PIN into the lock screen, then gnaws on the corner of her bottom lip.
After a few moments, she lowers the device, slips it into her side pocket, and makes eye contact with me. “Have to use the b-bathroom.”
Earlier, her muscles had to have been operating on pure adrenaline. She’s cooperated with physical therapy all week, but she hasn’t been getting around without someone guiding her. She has to be exhausted. “Do you need help?”
She shakes her head jerkily. “P-permission to go . . . alone. Please.”
The pain from her fist has nothing on the ache in my heart. “You don’t need to ask. Not ever. You’re free.”
She stands and backs through the closet door before turning to make her way to the bathroom. I watch her progress to make sure she isn’t headed back to the balcony or toward the elevator when she’s shoeless and confused.
I can’t think of anything in the bathroom at the moment that she could accidentally hurt herself with. As long as I stay close, I’ll hear something like a broken mirror.
She closes the door. Less than twenty seconds later, my phone vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket. Her contact, “Wifey,” along with a photo of her sticking out her tongue at me, shows on the screen.
“Yes?” I move immediately to go to her.
“I remembered this number. You’re the one I need. My name is Sydney Walsh McRae. Do you know me?” she whispers haltingly.
I close my eyes, torn between hope that she’s coming back to me and devastation at the fear in her voice. “Yes. I know you.”
“I was k-kidnapped, but I found my l-location on my phone.” She rattles off our street address. “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice thick.
I tap on the bathroom door.
“I have to go,” she says.
Ten seconds later, posture wary and no phone in sight, she opens the door.
I hold up my screen. “I’m the number you remembered. I’m here for you. Anything you need.”
Her gaze darts to my phone, shock, then denial, and finally, rage, twisting her features. She slams the door in my face.
I remain where I am, my nose centimeters from the glossy wood, as if her shutting me out was a prank. A mistake. As if it didn’t happen at all. She’ll open the door any second.
The lock clicks into place.
And still, I remain . . . one hand at my side, the other gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles ache.
I shove my phone into my pocket, her beautiful, silly, smiling face nothing but a memory. I press my forehead to the door.
“I’m here, Sydney. I’m right here.” Will she take my words as reassurance or a threat?
Sydney remembers my number. But she doesn’t remember me.
She’s terrified of abandonment. She always has been, no matter how she tried to hide it. She’s desperate for me, clinging one moment, then looking at me like I’m the enemy and fighting to get away the next.
Giving her space when she’s waiting for me to save her leaves her to suffer alone. But barging in to try to convince her I’m the man she’s waiting for will terrify her. There’s no right answer.
I back away from the door slowly, as though one wrong move will shatter me into broken glass. Granthy may arrive to find both of us rocking on the floor.
When I reach the bench at the end of our bed, my knees give out beneath me, and I drop heavily to sit.
I can’t breathe. No matter how hard I suck in air, my lungs need more. My pulse pounds and white spots bounce in my vision.
Panic attack, some conscious part of me whispers.
Calm the fuck down. But all of it plays like a reel in my mind.
Markov’s face as he turned toward her with his gun.
Sydney, broken, lost, damaged. The days and nights as she stared sightlessly and I prayed wordlessly for her to come back. The moment she climbed on that chair.
I press my fist to my chest, my heart pounding beneath my knuckles. She could have been gone in seconds. My mind plays it out like it happened, and I shake like a man with the bends.
Markov died too quickly. He didn’t suffer for what he did to her. I should have made him suffer.
I breathe through my nose. Slow down. Count. Blow it out. Instinct whispers that a bottle would bring relief, but bourbon is a liar. Tequila calls itself a friend and robs you blind.
Sydney is here and alive. She woke up, and she’ll heal, but I can’t help her if I don’t get a handle on myself. I drop my head between my knees until the spots clear from my vision.
The old me wouldn’t have made it this far. I’d have lost myself in a bottle when she was taken. And if I had, she’d have died.
I straighten, press my fist to my chest one more time. And I wait.
Ten minutes later, a knock sounds on our bedroom door, and I rise to my feet. “Enter.”
Josh Granthy, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, steps inside.
“I thought your dad was coming?” I ask.
Jaw tight, he drops a red duffel onto the bench at the end of my bed. “It’s his first day off in more than a week. I told him I’d cover if anything came up.”
“I appreciate your help.” Considering he’s avoided anything to do with me for close to a decade, there’s no question the favor is for his father’s benefit, not mine.
“Is the chaos out there yours or hers?” he asks in a clipped tone.
I lift my eyebrows, stung.
“Which? Or is it both?” He insists on an answer.
“Not mine,” I grate. “She sort of . . . woke up . . . but she doesn’t recognize me or our home. She thinks she’s still a prisoner.” I swallow hard. “She tried to climb over the balcony to escape.”
Josh frowns. “Where is she now? Is she still in a state of agitation?”
I indicate the door to my right. “She locked herself in the bathroom. We can get in easily enough, but I don’t know if she’s hallucinating, paranoid, or confused, and I didn’t think unlocking the door would help the situation.
She called my phone to ask me to save her, then shut me out when she saw me. ”
“All right.” He moves to the door and speaks through it. “Mrs. McRae, my name is Josh Granthy. I’m a physician. Will you come to the door?”
My phone vibrates, and I answer. “What is it, Kurt?”
“Some NYPD officers are on their way up to speak with Sydney for a welfare check.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me guess. My wife called 911.”