Chapter Twenty-Six
HELENA
Hospitals are built around waiting. Waiting for imaging. Waiting for bloodwork. Waiting for someone to read imaging.
Waiting for the person behind the curtain to decide whether they want you there. That last form is the most difficult. Caleb has a concussion. Mild, according to the physician.
A shoulder sprain. Four stitches near his hairline. No fracture. No internal injury.
He will hurt. He will recover. I know all of this because the emergency-room doctor told Mason, and Mason told Tessa, and Tessa told me only after asking Caleb whether she could. The chain is absurd.
Necessary. I have been sitting in the waiting area for two hours and nineteen minutes. I do not count intentionally. I simply know when I arrived.
At 11:47 p.m., Mason comes through the double doors. His wife is with him now, one hand on the small curve of her stomach beneath a wool coat. I stand.
“How is he?”
“Annoying.”
Relief hits hard enough to make my knees weak. Mason sees. His expression softens.
“He asked if you’re still here.”
I swallow.
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
“He said you can come back.”
Can. I nod.
“Thank you.”
Mason steps aside. Then stops me.
“Helena.”
I look at him. He rubs one hand over the back of his neck.
“I don’t know what the hell you two are doing.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good.”
I almost smile. He continues.
“But tonight, he was alive because he knows that building. And the cops were in the alley because your records showed them where Owen would come out.”
I say nothing.
“That does not make the rest okay.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrow.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He nods once.
“Okay.”
Then he walks away. I enter Caleb’s room. He is sitting partly upright in bed. Hospital gown.
Dark bruising beginning near his shoulder. A strip of white dressing at his temple. His hair is flattened on one side. He looks tired enough to make me angry at every person who has ever caused him inconvenience.
I keep that thought to myself.
“Hi.”
He opens one eye more than the other.
“Hi.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I was told honesty is important.”
“That was cruelly well timed.”
I sit in the chair beside the bed rather than on it and keep my hands to myself. A plastic bag on the table contains his torn shirt and jacket.
The jacket I remember from the roof. Different roof. Different night. I look at my hands.
“Police arrested Owen.”
“I saw.”
“They found additional devices in his car.”
“Okay.”
“Priya says—”
“Helena.”
I stop.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to give me a briefing.”
“Right.”
Silence. The monitor beside him makes a quiet regular sound. I hate monitors. They turn bodies into information.
Caleb looks at me.
“You gave them the archive.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Even yours.”
“Yes.”
His eyes close.
“Why?”
I almost answer because of you. That is true. It is also not the truth I want him to carry.
“Because they needed it.”
He opens his eyes.
“And because of me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what it could do to you.”
“Yes.”
“Board?”
“Already had me on leave.”
“Press?”
“May become worse.”
“Civil stuff?”
“Possible.”
He rubs one hand over his face carefully, avoiding the stitches.
“Jesus, Helena.”
“I am not telling you this for credit.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He looks irritated.
“What?”
“You sound like you’re in a deposition.”
“I am trying not to say the wrong thing.”
“You’re allowed to say wrong things.”
“That has gone poorly for me.”
He almost smiles. Then winces. I am on my feet before I think better of it.
“Pain?”
“Head.”
“I can call the nurse.”
“I have a button.”
“Right.”
I sit again. Caleb watches me. The restraint feels visible. Humiliatingly visible.
Finally he says, “What are you going to do with the files?” The question has been waiting. I take a folded document from my bag. It is not a contract.
A one-page instruction.
“I have arranged for an independent forensic copy to remain only as long as law enforcement and litigation require.”
He looks at the page.
“And after?”
“Destroyed.”
“All of it?”
“Everything without legitimate business or legal purpose.”
“My copy?”
“If you want one before destruction, yes.”
“Why would I want it?”
“I don’t know.”
He glances at me. Good. I said it. Did not die.
“I don’t.”
“Then you do not get one.”
A small laugh.
“What about the photograph from my father’s funeral?”
“Flagged for destruction at the earliest legally permitted date. No personal copies remain with Ward Meridian.”
He nods. I continue.
“The Halden will remain under independent governance. I cannot unilaterally change your lease or project terms.”
“Even when you’re back at work?”
“Yes.”
“You did that already?”
“Temporarily. The permanent structure is being documented.”
“And if we don’t—”
He stops. I wait.
“If you and I don’t work out,” he says.
“Same structure.”
“If I never come back.”
My throat tightens.
“Same structure.”
He studies me.
“You would still do all of this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it should not depend on whether you love me.”
The word leaves before I choose it. Love. The room goes very still. Caleb does not move.
Neither do I. I could correct. Say whether you want me. Say whether we reconcile.
Something safer. I do not. His voice is quieter when he speaks.
“Do you?”
I look at him. There is no useful answer except the true one.
“Yes.”
His eyes close. My chest hurts.
“I am not asking you to say it back.”
“I know.”
“I am not asking for anything.”
“I know.”
“Caleb.”
He opens his eyes.
“Sorry.”
I almost laugh. Instead I look away. Outside the room, a cart rolls past. Someone speaks too loudly at a nurse’s station.
Life continues with offensive normality.
“I don’t know if I can trust you the way I did before,” he says.
“You should not.”
His expression hardens.
“Don’t decide that for me.”
I stop. Right.
“Yes.”
He sighs.
“What I mean is… I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t know if that means no.”
I hold very still. This time not to control him. To keep myself from grabbing hope so hard it breaks.
“Okay.”
His hand moves across the blanket. Palm up. Between us. I look at it.
Then at him.
“Are you asking me to—”
“Yes.”
I put my hand in his. His fingers close around mine. Warm. Rough.
Alive. I look down because looking at his face is suddenly too much.
“I was afraid,” I say.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
He squeezes once.
“I could not see you.”
The admission comes slowly.
“I could not check where you were. I could not make Priya tell me more than she would tell anyone else. I could not enter the building.”
“That sounds horrible for you.”
There is weak humor in it. I laugh once.
“It was.”
“You stayed outside.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they told me going in could make it harder.”
His thumb moves against the side of my hand.
“So you waited.”
“Yes.”
I look at him.
“I hated every second.”
“Good.”
I blink. He almost smiles.
“Sorry. Concussion.”
“No, you meant it.”
“Little bit.”
A little ease reaches me at last. Not forgiveness. Not safety. A small place to stand.
Caleb’s eyes grow heavy. Medication. Exhaustion. He releases my hand.
I start to stand.
“Don’t.”
I stop. His eyes remain closed.
“Don’t what?”
“Disappear.”
The words are barely audible. I sit back down.
“I won’t.”
“Not forever.”
My throat tightens.
“No.”
“Just… tonight.”
“Okay.”
He falls asleep fifteen minutes later. I remain in the chair. Do not touch him. Do not check his chart.
Do not ask the nurse for more information than she offers. At 2:07 a.m., Caleb shifts and opens his eyes briefly. Sees me. Closes them again.
I stay until morning because he asked.