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“Let me drive you, okay? You just ride.” I open the back door. Truman bounds up. When I climb behind the wheel, I find Kellan is leaned back in his seat.
HE SITS HIS CHAIR UP after a while and bends over his phone. He’s got his shoulders hunched, his forearms drawn in close against his hips. His big hands curve around the phone. He looks ill—as if it was he who had the wreck.
I ask him where I’m going.
“Emory,” he murmurs.
I drive for what feels like years, setting my attention on the traffic. When I look over at him, I find his eyes on me. His face is grim.
A few minutes later, he plugs his phone into the iPhone cord and the car fills with... The Beatles. “Helter Skelter.”
I sneak a peek at Kellan and find him looking at the road. His lips are drawn into a line. His brows are tense. He doesn’t move at all to the music. I don’t even see him blink.
I weave in and out of traffic, which is starting to thicken with commuters, northbound toward Atlanta.
“Kell?”
He shifts his eyes to me. They’re slightly wide in thought, but as soon as they touch mine, they turn wary. He looks down at his phone. A few seconds later, “Helter Skelter” stops abruptly, leaving only road noise in my ears.
I’m at a loss for what to say. I wish I could help him, but I don’t know how. I don’t want to pry, though at the same time, I want details. I force myself to swallow.
He shuts his eyes, even as I see his knee vibrate from the bouncing of his foot. He peeks down at his phone again. As I move from the left lane to the middle, a different tune fills the car. The music is redolent and rich, beautiful and simple. The lyrics swell in my throat.
As I try to decipher their meaning, Kellan says, “Can you drive faster?”
He clutches his phone and I glance down at the screen. I expect a text. Instead I see the song title. “Your Protector’s Coming Home.” I can’t see who sings it, but I’m going to Google the lyrics while I wait for him.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
I shake my head. My gaze is hung between my knees.
“I’ll just park as close as I can, then,” she says in her soothing voice. “I can call and tell you where. Or you can call me and I can pick you up at the entrance when you’re done?”
I nod.
“Okay. Is here okay to drop you off?” I don’t even look out the window, just nod and push my door open. I take a step and—“Fuck.” I turn around—the parking lot careens around me—and grab onto the side of my car. It’s still here. Because Cleo has the window down and is holding my phone out for me.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I snatch it from her hand.
“Kellan—”
I turn and walk quickly toward the front of Emory University Hospital at Midtown, my eyes on the row of doors along the front of the tall, brick building. The morning light offers no warmth. I’m fucking freezing. I shove my hands into my pockets and fix my gaze on the grass under my feet. A few more steps, and I’m walking across a narrow throughway—the drop-off area for patients.
I shoulder through the door and stand in the lobby with my arms folded over my chest.
I watch a clock on the wall until fifteen long minutes have passed. Then I go back outside and start walking, across the throughway, across the small lawn, across a wider street and past the parking deck where Cleo will be, toward a smaller building as I murmur, “Glenn” repeatedly.
I reach the door and push it open with my forearm. As soon as I’m in the lobby, a pretty blonde woman appears at the mouth of a hall.
“Right this way, Mr. Walsh.”
I follow her into a dimly lit room where piano music drifts through ceiling speakers. I’m offered a seat in a plush armchair, near an oversized house plant.
I give the woman a hard look. “How long should it be until Marlowe gives the okay to get things moving?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes,” the blonde says, in a pleasant tone. “She’s expecting you of course.”
I’m there for almost five hours. The entire time, I wish I had sent Cleo home. Thinking she could comfort me was stupid. Wishful thinking of the worst kind.
