Chapter Forty-Nine #2
“Jesus,” he muttered when I was finished, sitting back and absorbing it all in. He eased his glasses off his face and repeatedly wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt.
“I’m killing him,” I whispered, staring at my hands that I wished to be stained with Branson’s blood. Dad let out a deflating breath and placed his hand on my thigh.
“Son, trust me. I understand the urge, but this is big. Branson is a political public figure, and you would be the prime suspect. You need to let the authorities handle this.”
I barked a laugh. “The authorities? Are you referring to the same ones who are probably in his pocket? The same man who probably owns an elite security firm?”
“The reasons you presented are exactly why you should stand down. God forbid we lose Kiyah. I can’t lose you, too.”
I shook my head. He wasn’t hearing me. “What aren’t you fucking getting?” I asked, looking at him with furious disbelief. “Are you still under the false assumption that Daisy and Nori were randomly involved in a hate crime? Who’s fucking next? Mom? Ms. Simone? Kieran?”
He raised the same hand that was on my thigh to pause me. “I hear you, Grant. I do. Let’s just… let’s just get through the night.”
The surgeon entering the waiting room stole my attention. I bolted to my feet and rushed towards him while everyone stood at attention. I met him at the end of the hallway, chest heaving while anxiety did its thing and clung to my lungs.
“How is she?” I rushed out before he could address me.
“The surgery was successful, and Mrs. Baker is being taken to recovery. She should start coming around in the next hour or so. She has a moderate concussion, so she’ll be a little groggy at first and may experience minor difficulty with recall, maybe even some confusion.
That is normal. What we would be nervous about is worsening headaches, repeated vomiting, trouble waking or staying awake, weakness or numbness to one side, increased agitation, slurred speech or worsening speech, unequal pupils, and seizures.
Those are indications of something serious going on that we want to address immediately. ”
I swallowed hard. “And the stab wound?”
“We found glass in the wound; however, vital organs were graciously spared, and luckily, we didn’t need to perform a blood transfusion.”
“How long will she be admitted, and when can I see her?”
“We want to keep her for at least forty-eight hours to monitor and ensure there are no further complications. Also, earlier, when she was admitted, medical staff relayed that, according to you, Mrs. Baker didn’t have any known allergies and was not currently pregnant.
We determined that she is approximately nine or ten weeks along. ”
My brain fizzled out, and static replaced reasoning. “Eleven weeks along, what?”
“Mrs. Baker is nine to ten weeks pregnant. The baby appears stable, but we’ll run additional tests once she’s fully awake.”
I covered my face with my hands, and the surgeon placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. The sound of my mother shrieking and sobbing in the background pierced through my shell-shock.
“Mom! She’s fine!” I shouted, realizing that she read our body language and thought the worst. “Um, thank you, Dr. Okafor. When can I see her?”
“Give us about thirty minutes and she’ll be settled in a room. Family can visit in pairs. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”
I returned to our family, caught in a daze. The stakes had risen. Kiyah was pregnant. Not only did Branson plan on killing my wife, but my child, too?
“Kiyah is doing fine. She is in recovery. She will be admitted for a few days for observation.”
The collective gasps of relief echoed through the corridor.
“When can we see her?” Kieran asked.
“Soon,” I responded, barely aware that I was speaking. A million things were running through my mind. Mom stepped forward.
“I need to talk to you… privately.”
I looked at her, and something twisted in my chest. She seemed to age overnight.
The worry sat in the fine lines around her red-rimmed eyes, and her shoulders slumped as if she couldn’t carry the weight of the world on them any longer.
The little tell-tale signs that she was approaching fifty were pronounced and undeniable.
I took her by the elbow and led her down the hall near the elevator bank. I waited patiently as she reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of tissues. She swiped her sniffling nose and clutched the tissues in her hand, returning her gaze to mine.
“Grant,” she said, voice cracking. “He has to go,” she whispered. “Do you know what I mean?” I nodded. “He took my baby, and he… he stabbed my baby.” Her breath shuddered as she spoke the unbelievable words. “He’s running.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the cops aren’t here handcuffing Kiyah to the bed for running off with a politician’s kid.
Are you telling me that one of the most talked-about political figures in our country doesn’t have an Amber Alert out for his child?
He sure was in front of the camera when his wife died. He’s bailing.”
Everything she said made perfect sense, which angered me more because the thought of Branson skipping the country without getting justice for Kiyah and our child was unfathomable.
“Your father,” she paused to snort, “he believes we should let the authorities handle it.”
“And you don’t,” I replied grimly.
She shook her head and stepped closer. “Grant… I have $30 million sitting in an account from my settlement. It’s yours. Hire a team, track him down, and kill him.”
I came alive like a live wire was whipping inside me. “You’re serious.”
“Kill that motherfucker, pray for forgiveness, and live your life.”