Page 150 of Relapse

“Stay back, sir!” someone yelled.

Damian was relentless. “That’s my brother! Let me in!” He threw himself against the barricade of nurses, but after a few failed attempts, his legs buckled. He collapsed to the linoleum, his voice breaking. “That’s my brother!”

A nurse at the center of the commotion spotted me, her eyes widening in disbelief. “What in the— What are you doing out of your room, Mr. Thorne?”

“Is he okay?” My body was betraying me now, my legs threatening to give out. I hobbled forward, using the IV rack to pull myself closer with each excruciating step.

Another wail filled my ears. Noah’s mom was in the vicinity now. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her struggle to push through, to get closer.

“My baby!”

The sound of her scream wasn’t from this Earth. It was of a mother being torn apart from the inside.

Delane was essentially holding my body upright. Frustratingly, she choked out, “We aren’t going to be able to get any closer.”

My eyes focused on the end of the hall, to the big double doors leading to the elevators. David appeared.

He came striding through, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, his voice booming with theatrical anguish. “My son!” he cried. “Is my son dead? Tell me he’s not dead!”

The shock that hit my system momentarily numbed the pain. Then my anger replaced it. Instantly.

I wanted to rip that motherfucker’s jugular from his throat. How dare he stand there, playing the devastated father. That bastard didn’t give a shit about Noah. How dare he act like he cared about Noah. He never had. His disgusting little performance wasn’t fooling me.

He positioned himself at the edge of the room, watching the nurses work. Every few seconds, his mask would slip. His stare would go flat and cold, his mouth would twitch with annoyance, and the real David would surface—the monster who viewed his own flesh and blood as disposable property. Then, quick as lightning, the “grief” would snap back into place.

Our eyes met briefly. I knew he could see me. I held my gaze there, hoping he could see exactly what I thought of him. Worthless bag of bones.

More screaming erupted—this time from the nurses and staff.

“Get out of the way! Clear the door! Coming through!”

Delane and I jostled to the side and the crowd began to part. Noah’s bed burst from the room, wheels shrieking against the floor as he and several nurses flew down the hall, past us.

Time fractured.

I stared at him as he passed like he was rolling away in slow motion. His body was limp on the bed, one arm dangling down past the guard lifelessly. Eyes closed. A nurse straddled the bed, her knees bracketing his hips, working a blue bag over his mouth and nose, breathing for him because he couldn’t.

They were only in my sights for a second, but I could still hear the mechanical sound of the device.

Squeeze. Breathe. Squeeze. Breathe.

How had I missed it? How had I not seen how far he’d fallen? The guilt was a physical blow and I staggered against Delane. I’d been so wrapped up in my desire for him, my own fears of losing him, that I’d failed him. Failed to notice the depth of his addiction, the desperation that must have been eating him alive right under my nose. Failed to realize that I was literally providing him with the unhealthy outlet that could have led him here—using our twisted connection as a makeshift tourniquet while he continued to bleed out in silence.

And now here he was, being kept alive by a stranger’s hands and a plastic bag.

“Doors!”

And just like that, he was gone—he and the nurses were swallowed by the elevator, leaving us standing in the wreckage. Slowly, the nurses dispersed, some fanning themselves, others pushing sweat-dampened hair from their foreheads, breathing hard. The hallway fell into an unnatural silence.

Damian stood frozen down the hall, having followed Noah’s bed part of the way before stopping. He looked like a dead man walking. He was lost.

Then, almost robotically, he turned and began walking toward us. Each step seemed to take effort. His eyes were unfocused, like he couldn’t quite process where he was.

As he approached, my mind began racing through the possibilities. Who could have gotten drugs to Noah in a hospital? Who would have access, opportunity, motive?

My eyes flicked back to where David was before. He was gone now, having done what he needed to, to plant the seeds needed for people to believe he was a father in mourning.

In my head, he was the suspect.