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The telltale signs of a panic attack were all too familiar to her. If she could concentrate long enough, she’d be able to slow her racing thoughts, calm her shallow breaths, and pump the blood back into her fingertips.
But that was when she was in the comfort of her own home.
Hospitals were different. The sterile smell of antiseptic spray took her back to a time when she almost forgot what a home should smell like. Fresh-baked cookies and hot coffee and her mother’s ever-present lavender potpourri.
Back then, it was lukewarm meatloaf and Styrofoam cups and bandages that needed changing. But it was also the bright-white lights that never turned off and the constant beeping of monitors and the way they woke you up every few hours to check your vitals. Cassie could sleep all day in a hospital bed and never feel like she’d gotten enough rest.
And the waiting rooms. Sometimes they were worse than the patient rooms. The hushed whispers, the anticipation of bad news, and the skip of your heart whenever the door opened and the nurse called someone’s name. The feeling of relief when it was not your turn offset the sinking realization you were just putting off the inevitable.
But it was so much worse for Cassie. No amount of bleach could scrub the smell of death from the air. There was something oppressive about hospitals, too. The building had seen an indescribable amount of death, and even though some had been accidental or even anticipatory, each soul left its mark until it felt as though the hospital took on a life of its own.
Areas like this—waiting rooms and doctors’ offices—were nothing compared to the emergency room, but Cassie could feel the darkness reaching out to her like icy fingers running their nails down her back. The ambient temperature was always a few degrees colder here, and she never could quite get warm.
A young father and his son walked into the waiting room, glanced in her direction, then sat in a pair of chairs about ten feet away. The boy was about eight, with dark hair and curious eyes. He stared at Cassie until his father took out a toy train and let him play out all the adventures living in his head.
Sebastian Thomas was about the same age when he went missing.
When he died.
There was no mention of Sebastian’s father in the newspaper article—just his babysitter and mother—and Cassie wondered if he had been in the picture, if he even knew his son was missing. Did he help? Did he do it? After all, Sebastian hadn’t made a scene. If his father had told him to come with him, the boy would’ve obeyed.
The irony of cases like this is that it is inconceivable a parent would kill their own child, and yet, they are often the first suspect. And for good reason. They would have the victim’s trust, ample opportunity, and even motive. And yet we never want to believe they would be capable of such a crime.
Cassie thought of Connor Grayson. From what she’d gathered about the mother, the police would clear her as a suspect. Senator Grayson, however, would have more to prove. His poor relationship with his son and his political aspirations would undoubtedly come back to bite him in the ass.
But was he capable of killing his own child? Cassie didn’t know enough about him to make that determination. Over the years, she’d seen the lengths to which politicians would go in order to secure their futures, but their victims were typically strangers or colleagues. Not their own kids.
The little boy made train noises as he pushed his toy around the room and over to where Cassie was sitting. When he got close enough, he stopped, looked up at her, and handed the train over. Cassie took it with a smile on her face.
“Thank you very much.” The metal train was hand-painted. Perhaps it was the boy’s father’s when he was growing up. “What’s your name?”
“Devin.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Devin. My name is Cassie.”
Devin looked at the empty seat next to Cassie, the
n back up at her. “Can Sebastian and I play together?”
Cassie’s breath caught in her throat. She looked on either side of her but didn’t see the ghost of the little boy who had haunted her for months. Why did he seem to always be by her side, but choose to be invisible? Why was he showing himself to Devin and not to her?
“Please?” Devin asked. His big brown eyes were hard to resist.
She handed the train back to him. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Devin bounded away, and Sebastian presumably followed him. When Cassie looked up, her eyes met the father’s, who stood and walked over to her with a sheepish smile on his face.
“Sorry about that. He’s pretty friendly.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all. He’s adorable.”
“He’s a handful, that’s for sure.” The man looked at his son, then back at Cassie. He lowered his voice. “Did he say anything strange to you?”
Cassie’s eyes widened. There was no way she’d be able to explain what had just transpired.
The man held up his hands. “You don’t have to tell me what it is. It makes some people uncomfortable. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with him. I just want him to be okay, you know?”
