My eyes open to the yellow light of a lamp. This is not my room. I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my side cuts through me. I gasp and reach for it. Flashbacks to my dream spring up in my mind. No. It can't be because of him. The bastard is in a maximum-security prison. If he'd gotten out, my handler would've had me moved to a new location and given me another name change.
"Don't move too much. You'll rip your stitches, they're still fresh." A blonde woman comes over to me with a soft smile. I don't know what to think. She reaches out to touch me and I shy away from her the best I can.
"Don't worry, you're safe. My name is Ensley. I'm working to become an RN. You were just seen by a doctor and he's given you an antibiotic shot and stitched you up. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Shit, does she know I can't talk? I sign with my hands, "I don't remember."
She signs back quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you're deaf. Is this easier?"
I shake my head and keep signing. "I'm not deaf, I'm mute. You can talk."
"You were grazed with a bullet in your side. It looks like a through and through. We couldn't find any bullet. None of your organs were damaged. You got super lucky. All those layers of clothing helped save your life, I think. Slowed the bullet down or something.
I peer down at my body. It's covered by a sheet, but it's now I realize I don't have much on under it. I can feel it touching the parts of my stomach that still have feeling. I then look around again. "Where am I? This isn't a hospital."
She frowns. "That's a bit more complicated than I can answer. You're at a good house. I trust the people here with my life, but I don't know why they brought you here over a hospital. I've been left out of the loop. I can go get the man who brought you here. He'll have more answers than me, but I don't know if he knows ASL. The Bancrofts tend to surprise me though, so he might."
My heart thunders. A man? Could it be one of his men having finally found me? Wouldn't they want me to die though? Why bring me to a nice house and patch me up when they could've just put a bullet in my head and been done with it?
"I can use pen and paper if you have it? And can I have something to cover up more?" I feel so exposed. My layers give me security, and I don't have that right now.
She pulls out her phone. "You can use this and type on the notepad, I'll need it back before I leave though. I noticed you didn't have a phone on you." Her thumb moves over the screen before she hands it to me.
I stare at it. It's been so long since I had a phone like this. My handler kept my cellphone to a basic flip one, mostly so I could take calls from them and tap yes or no replies. They didn't want to give any of the men I'm hiding from a means of finding me through social media or anywhere else.
Next thing I know a large white comforter flies over me and floats down to the bed. I feel like I'm under a cloud. It's not as good as the clothes I'm used to wearing, but it will do for now.
"Thank you," I sign to her.
She smiles. "Of course. I'll send Porter in now if you want to speak to him?"
My heart hammers. Being around any man sets me on edge. I need to know what the hell is going on, I have no choice but to face my fears. I nod.
She smiles at me and I can't help but feel a bit of comfort that I won't get tortured wherever I am. Leaving the room, a moment later a man enters, followed by an older one.
I pull the comforter up more. I'd been expecting one strange man, not two.
The dark-haired one steps over to the bed, his brown hair swept back in a lazy pompadour. His strong jaw covered by scruff. His blue eyes stare at me, and for a second I almost want to believe that he has concern in them for me. The older one has gray streaks through his dark hair and brown eyes. His grey beard has more white in it. They stand at the same height as each other, and I can't help but feel they might be brothers. Other than the eye color and hair, their facial similarities are too similar to be cousins or friends.
He steps up to the bed and I bury myself more under the blanket. I don't like how close they are.
The one with blue eyes takes a step back and then pulls the older one over with him. "Easy. We're not going to hurt you. My name is Porter and this is my brother Cason. You're in his house right now."
I pull my hands out to sign and then remember the phone. I highlight the text and use the speech function on the phone for it to read it aloud. I'd missed being able to do this. Flip phones don't allow for it and I don't want to walk around with a dry erase board around my neck to communicate with people that don't know ASL.
"Why am I here? What happened? Shouldn't I be in a hospital?" The phone speaks for me.
They look at each other and Cason leans over to him and whispers something in his ear. Porter frowns and whispers something back to him. This goes on for a minute or so before they look at me. Porter runs a hand through his hair. He's attractive, but I've already learned just because they look nice doesn't mean they are.
He clears his throat. "We're going to be honest with you."
That's never a good thing. It could mean they're going to lie and want me to believe them.
"I was hired to kill you, but I'm not the one who hurt you. Another hitman was tailing you at the same time. I don't know what he was doing with his aiming, but it hit you in the side. I planned to hit you with a tranquilizer and take you off the map while I figured out why someone would want you dead. Because I also tailed you and I saw nothing that makes you someone of interest to be killed. You're not a mistress, drug dealer, the girl turned against her pimp, a person to lure children into something. You don't fit the mold for any of our typical kills. So why, Darcy Clemens, do so many people want you dead?"
I grimace. I hate that name. It's not my name. I haven't heard my name said in so long. If I didn't remind myself of it daily I would've forgotten it at this point. I'm Gwen Hastings, but no one has said that name in over ten years and I'm sure as hell not going to tell them who I really am.
Honestly, I feel inclined to believe them. Who would they make up that they're a hitman or that they were there when another one tried to kill me. If they wanted me dead then they had every chance before this to kill me. They could've just let me bleed out on my sofa bed. Oh lord, that means he was in my apartment and saw the state it was in.
