Chapter 19 Sage
SAGE
Hope sits on the edge of the bed in the private recovery room, sunlight wrapping across her lap like a warm sash. The second she sees me, her face changes completely, relief, disbelief, and joy all rushing through her like color returning to a faded photograph.
“Sage.”
I cross the room before my name finishes leaving her mouth. The distance between us disappears in three strides. Her hands are cool when I take them, thin and trembling under my palms. The faint quiver in her tendons tells me what her words will try to hide.
“I’m okay,” she insists, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I promise, I’m okay.”
I cup her face and press my forehead against hers, closing my eyes for one heartbeat. “You scared me,” I murmur. “You always do.”
She laughs softly, the sound fragile but alive. When she pulls back, there’s a spark of mischief that’s all her. “You look different. Happier,” she says, studying me. Her gaze slides toward the doorway where Luka stands speaking with Albert, his voice low. “Is that because of him?”
Heat climbs up my neck. I draw in a slow breath and will my pulse to calm. “It’s because you’re safe,” I tell her, hoping the words hide the truth simmering beneath them.
“You're coming with us,” I whisper. “We’ll stay at Luka’s cabin.”
Her brows pull together. “What about home?”
“There is no home,” I admit quietly. The words scrape my throat raw. “Not right now.”
For a moment, the air stills. Hope’s eyes search mine, trying to read everything I’m not saying. I see her lips part with a question, but she closes them again.
Behind me, Luka’s voice rumbles, a few short words to Albert about transport, signatures, and security protocol.
He doesn’t raise his tone, but it carries authority even over the machines and muted hallway noise.
Hope leans lightly on my arm, her shoulder fitting into the curve of mine like it always did when she was little and afraid of storms.
I glance toward Luka. He’s watching the doorway, scanning for threats even here, in a place meant for healing. When our eyes meet, his expression softens for a fraction of a second. A silent nod. A promise that he’s in control.
The men step out without another word, the door shutting softly behind them, and the silence folds in around Hope and me.
“Jenny called me about the café,” Hope whispers, as if speaking it too loudly will make it real again. “She was crying so hard I could barely understand her. I remember the siren on the call. I remember my heart kicking. Then nothing.”
The image sinks in, and I fight to keep my face calm. “The fire department put it out fast. They’re still investigating.”
Her eyes search mine. “Is it bad?”
“Bad enough,” I admit. A truth wrapped inside gentleness, because she deserves both. “But we’ll rebuild. The insurance will help.”
“Insurance never covers what matters.” She tries to smile. “You taught me that.”
“I did.” I draw her hands closer. “We’ll make it work. We always do.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
A knock lands softly on the door. Albert steps in halfway, a wall in a suit, shoulders filling the frame. “We are on schedule,” he announces, his voice low. “Discharge in ten.”
“Thank you,” I reply before he turns and leaves, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
I turn back to Hope, quickly faking a brightness I don’t feel. “Good news. They’re rushing your paperwork. Once we sign, we’ll head to the cabin where we’ll be safe.”
“Safe?” Her attention narrows like a bee drawn to sound. “Why safe?”
“Because the investigators think the fire wasn’t an accident,” I answer, choosing each word with care. I won’t give her Ray’s name, not here. “They want us away from the apartment until things settle. Luka offered a place that has security.”
Her mouth opens, surprise flashing through her eyes. “He’s Luka Barinov?” she asks slowly. “I’ve read about him… something about his shipping company and a federal investigation last year.”
“He’s helping.” I keep my tone even. “Right now, that’s what matters.”
She studies me. She’s always known when I’m softening the truth. I let her look. If she sees anything that worries her, I want to be the first to hear it.
At last, she nods and lets out a shaky breath. “Fine. I won’t fight you on this.”
“Thank you.” I kiss her hairline and step back. “Do you think you can stand for a minute? We should gather your things before the nurse brings the wheelchair.”
“I can stand,” she says, determination stiffening her spine.
I slide an arm around her waist and help her up. She sways once, then finds her balance, her chin lifting. The sunlight touches her cheekbones and turns the blue in her eyes almost silver. I want to hold her here in this bright slot of day and keep the world away. Instead, I help her with her coat.
When we’re finished, she sits again, breathing a touch quick. “How long will we stay with Luka?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. Long enough for the investigators to make a report.”
Before she can reply, movement in the hall pulls my attention.
Voices rise in a flurry, followed by the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum.
I glance toward the door. A nurse slips inside with a chart pressed tightly to her chest. Her mask sits low for a moment before she hikes it up with a gloved knuckle.
Her eyes crease with practiced concern above the mask.
“Morning,” she says gently. “Ready to roll? I’ve got your final forms and a wheelchair waiting.”
“Hi.” I straighten. “We’re ready.”
She checks Hope’s chart, scanning the pages. “Vitals look good. Are you feeling steady?”
“I’m okay,” Hope answers softly.
“Great.” The nurse’s eyes crinkle again. “Let me grab your discharge packet. We’ll sign here, then head to the elevator.”
She moves to the rolling table beside the bed, flips the chart open, and pulls a pen from her pocket. Her hands are quick and sure. She slides the pen toward me.
“If you can sign here, Ms. Bellamy,” she says, tapping the line. “Standard discharge. Follow-up details on page two. Medication reconciliation on page three.”
I reach for the pen, but before it touches the page, the calm shatters. The alarm erupts into a feral scream, slicing through the quiet. Red strobe lights flash in the hall, each pulse cutting across the doorway. The sound crawls down my spine. Hope jumps, startled.
“Stay calm,” the nurse calls out, her voice raised above the noise. “We have a protocol. I’ll get your chair.”
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell Hope, squeezing her hand though my own trembles.
The nurse steps into the hallway and returns with a wheelchair, maneuvering it beside the bed. “We relocate the patients until the head nurse confirms the source of the alarm,” she explains, her tone calm and professional. “You can walk beside the chair and bring the bag.”
The alarm keeps howling, the sound overlapping with pounding footsteps and shouted instructions. Somewhere down the hall, a voice calls for a crash cart. Hope inches forward on the mattress, her teeth pressed into her lower lip, her eyes wide with fear.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, wrapping an arm under hers. Together we rise. She sways once before lowering herself into the chair with a shaky exhale. I pull the blanket across her knees, tucking it close.
“I’ll grab the bag,” I tell her, turning toward the chair by the window where the canvas tote waits.
The nurse glances at me. “Wait, I still need your signature on the discharge papers. Just the highlighted lines at the bottom. It’ll take two seconds.”
I pivot back to the rolling table. The alarm slams against my skull, the red light pulsing across the floor. I grip the pen. A gurney rattles past the door, metal wheels shrieking, voices clipped short by urgency.
“Ms. Bellamy,” the nurse prompts.
“I see it,” I answer, forcing my focus to the page.
I scrawl my name as quickly as my hand allows. The bag thumps against my leg when I lift it. I hook the straps over my shoulders and turn back, smiling, hoping to calm my sister.
“Okay. We are—”
They’re gone. The nurse is already in the hall, pushing the wheelchair, Hope’s blanket folded neatly across her lap. Her pace is smooth, unhurried, almost casual in the chaos of alarms and shouting.
“Wait!” I call, rushing forward.
A hospital volunteer in a yellow vest steps into the doorway, blocking my path. His hands lift in apology. “Ma’am, please stay inside the room until we have clearance to move. It keeps the corridor open for the code.”
“That’s my sister,” I bite out. “Move.”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice tight. “I’m sorry.”
I can see the nurse turning left, the wheelchair slipping through the double doors, and vanishing into the crowd. My pulse spikes. I shove past the volunteer, my heart hammering, the bag knocking hard against my hip.
The hallway is chaos. Red lights flash along the walls, painting everything in frantic strokes of crimson.
A custodian pushes a gray bin the other way, moving like he’s fleeing a rising tide.
A man in scrubs shouts for people to keep right.
The gurney I heard earlier disappears down another corridor, swallowed by the press of bodies and motion.
Then I see it. The wheelchair sits at the far end of the hall near a service door marked with a small red sign. The nurse’s back is to me. She presses the door bar with her hip as she maneuvers the chair. A freight elevator gapes open, its metal grate halfway raised.
The nurse pushes the wheelchair inside. The wheels rattle against the concrete floor.
“Hey!” I shout, panic clawing at my insides.
She doesn’t look back. The elevator doors begin to close, swallowing the dull glow of the hallway.
I run.
Albert barrels after me down the corridor, cursing in Russian, clearing bodies with his shoulders. An orderly steps in his way and rebounds off him like he hit a wall.
Albert shouts into his radio. “Exit C. Back corridor. Freight elevator. They are moving.”
Static answers him.
I sprint, my lungs burning. My shoes skid on a wet streak left by a mop. I catch myself on the rail and push harder.
Albert’s voice cuts through the noise. “Stairs, on the right!”
Albert yanks open the stairwell door. We barrel down one flight and through the door.
The door at the landing bangs open to a concrete corridor lined with supply carts and chemical drums. The space reeks of bleach and diesel.
The elevator’s metal gate stands open now, the interior empty except for Hope’s blanket crumpled in the corner.
The corridor opens into a loading corridor with a metal roll-up door partway raised and a slice of parking lot showing like a torn page. A woman in a nurse’s uniform stands by the exit, a dark smear of blood glistening on her forehead, phone pressed to her ear as she watches the lot.
“Where did they go,” I demand, my breath snagging hard.
She points with the phone, unblinking. “Out that way.”
Albert lunges to the opening and ducks under the roll-up door.
I shove after him. The sun slams into us, so bright it scrapes my retinas raw.
A white van idles at the curb, its door adorned with a magnetic hospital logo.
The rear doors are shut. A man in scrubs slips into the passenger seat, eyes fixed ahead.
The van lunges forward, tires screaming against the asphalt.
“Stop!” I scream, and it feels like trying to catch smoke with my hands.
Albert is already on the radio, the words a chain.
“White van. Decal on the door. East lot. Plate unknown. Moving north. Blocker to gate two now.” His other hand is at his hip, reaching for his weapon.
His words come out tight, rage bleeding through the cracks of control.
He looks at me once. “Back inside,” he barks.
“No.” My voice rips on the single syllable.
The van clips the corner and is swallowed up by the stream of vehicles that have begun to snake away from the building. The ambulance behind it shields it for a moment, a moment that costs us everything.
I turn to run after it anyway, like feet can beat an engine. Albert catches me at the elbow and drags me two steps back toward the door.
“Let go,” I snarl, trying to wrench free. “That’s my sister. Let me go.”
He doesn’t. He plants me against the concrete with his forearm braced against my chest and his eyes a hard wall. “We do not chase alone.”
I don’t hear reason. I slam my fist against his chest once, twice, fury flashing white through my vision. He absorbs it, his jaw tight, then eases me under the door and back into the dim corridor where the alarm is still blaring.
I shove past him and stumble into the service hallway, taking the stairs two at a time until I burst back into the main corridor.
The staff are corralling people into lines, trying to shape the chaos into something that looks like order.
I push through the crush of bodies, my pulse roaring in my ears, until I reach Hope’s room.
The rolling table sits crooked. The pen lies where I dropped it. The bed is smooth, untouched.
My hands find the edges of the mattress, gripping hard enough to sting. I try to draw a breath, but the air refuses to come. I try to think, but fear still has everything locked inside me.
Hope is gone.