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right, but found that the words refused to come. Instead she stood mute and helpless as the receptionist returned, handing her a slip of paper with a number on it.
“If anyone asks, say you’re related. Critical care, fourth floor, lift bank C. This is your pass.”
“Is he dead?” Summer finally blurted it out.
The receptionist looked down, unable to meet her eyes.
“They’ll explain everything to you on the fourth floor, my love.”
“Please! Just tell me. Is he dead?”
The receptionist exchanged an anxious glance with her colleague. “Look, we’re not supposed to say anything,” she whispered to Summer. “But according to my notes, Michael De Vere was pronounced dead about an hour ago. I’m so sorry. Critical will tell you more.”
Summer pushed her way through the swing doors in a daze.
Michael’s dead.
Dead.
I’m too late.
An orderly stopped her. “Are you all right, miss? Can I help?”
Summer held up her piece of paper like a zombie. The orderly waved her on. Elevator bank C was over there. Turn right for trauma, left for critical care. Reception up the stairs. Summer was aware of people moving around her, nurses and patients and visitors and doctors. There was piped-in music and a coffee shop selling plastic-wrapped sandwiches and a big fish tank with a gang of bored children hovering around it and huge glass windows with light streaming through them. But for her, everything had stopped. She moved through the corridors like a ghost, numb and silent.
He’s dead. Michael’s dead.
Bizarrely, she found herself thinking about the party. What was happening at Kingsmere while Michael’s private tragedy unfolded? Would the event still go on as planned? Or would heads of state arrive and be turned away? She tried to picture the scene.
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness. There’s been a tragedy. The hosts’ son has been killed.”
“You going up, love?”
Michael’s dead, we can’t go ahead.
That rhymes.
“Fourth floor. Doors opening.”
Michael’s dead, in a hospital bed, we can’t go ahead.
“This is critical care. Can I help you?”
“Summer.” Teddy De Vere’s voice was the first thing to reach her. She turned around and there he was. It took a few seconds for the fog to clear, for the shock to fade enough for her to recognize Michael’s father’s kind, familiar features.
“Teddy.” She burst into hysterical tears.
“Now, now.” Teddy wrapped comforting, paternal arms around her. “Don’t cry. It’s all right.”
“All right? It’s not all right,” Summer wailed. “He’s dead!”
Teddy looked perplexed. “No, he isn’t.”
Hope rose up in Summer’s throat like vomit. “Michael’s not dead?”
“No, my dear. Who told you that?”
“The receptionist. Downstairs.”
