Page 49 of The Golden Hour

Mason didn’t disturb the silence. He sat in the chair and rested his hand on the bed beside Honey’s. Somehow, he kept himself from touching her like he desperately wanted to.

He wanted to take her hand and press his mouth to her knuckles. He wanted to climb into bed and wrap himself around her broken body. He wanted to kiss her head, smell her hair, and assure himself that she was alive and breathing.

He had months of opportunity to touch her at home whenever he wanted. They’ve always had a very tactile relationship, that annoying couple that constantly holds hands in public and isn’t shy with PDA—within reason. He always had a hand on her back or an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to kiss her head.

He had it, he took it for granted.

So he hasn’t touched her.

It feels like the first unselfish thing he’s done for her in a long time.

“Farah says she’s going to make a full recovery,” Mason says, his voice rough and his eyes go back to Honey’s still form on the bed. “In time.”

Ellen steps farther into the room, her clogs making almost no sound on the floor.

“Farah is a great doctor,” Ellen says plainly. “Better than Mortimer, that’s for damn sure.”

Mason nods, his hands curling into fists at the mention of Honey’s doctor. He feels sick thinking of the dismissive way he spoke about Honey—and how Mason himself allowed it. Mortimer missed preeclampsia, which a standard blood pressure test could have caught. He skated by on past brilliance, as if that were enough to cover up his outdated care.

He put people in danger.

He put his wife in danger, and she almost died from it.

“Ellen,” he says, looking at the open door behind her. She catches his look and walks back to shut the door softly. He keeps his voice quiet as she walks closer. “I need to know what’s in Honey’s chart.”

Ellen’s face hardens. “You know that I can’t pull it for you, kid.”

“I know,” he says, because he does. It’s basic HIPAA. He can’t pull his wife’s chart, and if he tried, his license would be on the line. “But Honey’s doctor can review it.”

A look of understanding crosses Ellen’s face.

“That she can.”

“And she’s not happy with Mortimer either.”

“There aren’t many people who are,” Ellen mutters. “He’s been in the admin's office all day. Talking to legal. Covering their asses, no doubt.”

“Ellen,” Mason says, his tone serious enough to make her frown. “I’m worried they’re going to bury it, amend it, add late notes, and create a narrative before Honey even wakes up to tell the truth.”

Ellen doesn’t look surprised by his words, and that scares him a little.

“I’ll catch Farah before I leave,” Ellen promises, and Mason sighs in relief. “You keep your nose as far away from her chart as you can.”

“Thank you.”

They won’t be able to edit Honey’s chart just yet, not with her still in the hospital, and not with Farah taking over her care. It would raise too many red flags.

His faith in this hospital and in its leaders has crumbled so quickly and so easily; it’s a miracle it even held in the first place.

Dr. Weaver pointing out Mason’s failure while carefully steering attention away from the hospital had soured something inside him. He used to see Dr. Weaver as someone he wanted to emulate—an idol or a hero.

But after speaking with Dana, after seeing the lonely future his daughter and wife could have if he kept worshipping this place, after hearing how Weaver spoke to Melissa in the hallway, and after realizing how quickly everyone moved into careful cover-ups, there’s nothing left to stand on.

Clarity seems to come too late to Mason.

Ellen glances back at the door before approaching Mason.

He keeps his eyes on Honey, jumping back and forth between her and the monitors displaying her numbers. Her blood pressure is slowly lowering, and her heart rate is steady. She’s getting a continuous magnesium drip to keep her from seizing while her body tries to repair itself.