Chapter 7 Mitch
MITCH
Everything hurt.
That was Mitch’s first coherent thought as consciousness pulled him up from the depths. His head pounded with a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Everything was blurry, shapes swimming in and out of focus like he was looking through frosted glass.
He tried to understand where he was, what had happened. The ceiling above him was white and unfamiliar. Mitch was sure that wasn’t his bedroom at the cottage.
He attempted to move, to push himself up, but soft hands pressed against his shoulders, stopping him.
“Mitch, don’t move.” Lori’s voice sounded urgent and worried. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Doctor? Confusion hit him like a wave. What was going on? Why did he need a doctor?
He tried to turn his head toward her voice, and burning pain shot through the back of his skull.
He winced, the movement sending fresh waves of agony radiating outward.
His hand moved instinctively toward the source of the pain, but something tugged at it.
He looked down, vision still swimming, and saw an IV line taped to the back of his hand.
“Mitch, please, stop moving,” Lori implored him, her voice closer now. “I’ve buzzed for the medical staff.”
Medical staff? Mitch squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his vision, then opened them again slowly. His surroundings gradually came into focus. White walls. Beeping monitors. A curtain pulled partially around the bed. A worried Lori leaned over him, her face pale in the fluorescent light.
A hospital room. He was in a hospital.
“Why?” Mitch rasped, his mouth dry as cotton, tongue feeling thick and clumsy.
Lori’s hand found his, her fingers wrapping around his palm. “You were hit on the head,” she explained gently. “We found you on the beach, unconscious.”
What? His mind whirled, trying to drag memories up from the fog that seemed to have settled over his brain. He moved his head slightly, trying to think, and winced again as the pain at the back of his skull burned bright and sharp.
“Mitch, please,” Lori said, her other hand coming to rest lightly on his arm. “You have five stitches at the back of your head. You need to stay still.”
Five stitches? Had he been hit that hard? His eyes widened as memory suddenly flooded back in a rush. The beach. The cry for help. The figure on the rocks. Pulling out his phone. Then nothing but blinding pain and darkness.
“I was attacked from behind,” Mitch managed to rasp out, each word an effort. “A trap. It was a trap.”
“What do you mean?” Ryan’s voice came from somewhere behind Lori.
Mitch turned his head carefully toward the sound and saw his son standing at the door with Tessa just behind him. Ryan stepped into the room and came closer to the bed, his face drawn with concern.
“Water,” Mitch said, his throat burning with thirst. “I need water.”
“Here,” a nurse said, appearing on his other side with a cup of water, a straw already in it. She was in her forties, efficient-looking, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She brought the straw to his lips. “Sip slowly, Mr. Brandon.”
Mitch did as she instructed, the cool water soothing his parched throat. He wanted to gulp it down, but the nurse pulled the cup away after a few sips.
“Just a little at a time for now,” she said, setting the cup on the bedside table within reach. She checked the monitors above his bed, making notes on a tablet. “How’s your pain level? One to ten?”
“Six,” Mitch said, though honestly it felt closer to eight. But he’d had worse. Much worse.
The nurse made another note. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”
She stepped out, and moments later, a woman in a white coat entered. She was in her early fifties, with her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her badge read Dr. Patricia Huang.
“Mr. Brandon,” Dr. Huang said with a professional smile. “I’m glad to see you awake. I’m going to need to examine you, so if your visitors could step outside for just a few minutes?”
Lori squeezed Mitch’s hand once more before releasing it. “We’ll be right outside,” she told him softly.
Ryan, Tessa, and Lori filed out into the hallway, and the doctor moved to Mitch’s bedside. She pulled a penlight from her pocket and shone it in his eyes, first one and then the other, watching his pupils react.
“Follow my finger,” she instructed, moving it slowly from side to side. Mitch tracked the movement, his head protesting with each shift of his gaze. “Good. Can you tell me your full name?”
“Mitchell James Brandon.”
“What year is it?” the doctor asked.
He answered correctly.
“Do you know where you are?” was her next question.
“I’m guessing Nantucket Cottage Hospital,” Mitch said.
Dr. Huang nodded, seeming satisfied. She examined the back of his head carefully, her fingers gentle as they probed around the injury. Mitch winced but stayed still.
“You were unconscious for approximately an hour,” the doctor explained, moving back to where he could see her.
“You have a significant laceration at the back of your head that required five stitches. There was quite a bit of sand embedded in the wound that we had to clean out thoroughly before we could close it.”
She checked his reflexes, tapping his knees with a small hammer, testing his grip strength.
“As far as I can tell, you were lucky,” Dr. Huang said, making notes on her tablet. “There’s no swelling, no signs of skull fracture. Your CT scan was clear. But head injuries are unpredictable, Mr. Brandon. Even minor concussions can have delayed symptoms.”
“Good,” Mitch said, starting to push himself up. “Then I can go home.”
Dr. Huang’s expression was firm as she placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Not a chance. We’re keeping you for twenty-four hours for observation. Head trauma requires monitoring.”
“I’m fine,” Mitch argued, frustration building. “I can rest at home. I’ve had worse than this.”
“I don’t doubt that,” the doctor said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “But you were found unconscious on a beach with a significant head wound. You’re staying, Mr. Brandon. Hospital policy, and quite frankly, good medical practice.”
Mitch opened his mouth to argue further, but Ryan’s voice cut him off. “Dad, you’re staying. Don’t argue.”
Mitch looked toward the door. Ryan had stepped back in, apparently having heard the last part of the conversation. His son’s expression was set in that particular way that meant there would be no negotiating.
“Ryan, I need to—” Mitch started.
“You trained me better than that,” Ryan interrupted, moving to stand beside the bed. “Head injuries need observation. You know it. I know it. You’re staying, and that’s final.”
Dr. Huang nodded approvingly at Ryan. “Listen to your son, Mr. Brandon. He’s making more sense than you are right now.” She tucked her tablet under her arm. “I’ll leave you to your visitors, but I’ll be checking on you regularly throughout the night.”
As she reached the door, the nurse who’d given Mitch water earlier stepped back in. “You can stay for another ten minutes,” she told Ryan, Tessa, and Lori, who were filing back into the room. “Then Mr. Brandon needs his rest.”
They all nodded their understanding, and the medical staff left, closing the door softly behind them.
Mitch looked at the three of them and tried one more time. “Ryan, I really think I should go home.”
“Not a chance,” Ryan cut him off again, his voice gentle but firm. “But what you can do is tell us what happened. All of it. From the beginning.”
Mitch sighed, recognizing defeat when he saw it. He might as well use this time productively.
“I was examining the cottage,” he began, his voice still rough but getting stronger. “Checking the basement window, following the escape route down to the beach. I wanted to understand how our intruder got in and out without being seen on the cameras.”
Lori pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, her attention focused completely on him.
“I found the route,” Mitch paused, accepting another sip of water that Lori offered him, hearing his voice grow raspy as he tried to cough and clear his throat.
“I crossed the road to check the beach access at the front of the houses, and that’s when I heard someone calling for help.
There was a figure on the rocks, waving, and they looked like they were trapped by the tide coming in. ”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Let me guess. You went to help them?”
“Of course I did,” Mitch said. “They sounded desperate. I pulled out my phone to call Lori to get backup, maybe call emergency services.” He stopped, the memory crystallizing with painful clarity.
“Then someone struck me from behind, and I dropped to the ground, blacking out.” The words hung in the air for a moment.
“I’m sure it was an ambush,” Mitch said, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“Someone lured me there. The cry for help was the bait.” He realized something then, the implications hitting him, and the words were out before he could stop them.
“Which means windbreaker man hadn’t made his getaway yet.
He was still there after removing the fuses, still in the area, still planning something. ”
He saw it immediately—the fear that flashed across Lori’s face. She tried to hide it, tried to be brave, but Mitch knew he’d scared her. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking before speaking.
Ryan was nodding, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right. He went to all that trouble removing those fuses. Which raises the question: what was he after? Something in Seabird Cottage or something in Sunrise House?”
He crossed his arms, that analytical look Mitch recognized from his own face settling over Ryan’s features.
“If he wanted to get into your house, going after Lori makes sense. He gets you to want to protect her and Tessa, so you stay at Seabird Cottage for the night. That would leave Sunrise House completely vulnerable.”