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Why does my voice sound all raspy?
She turns forward but can’t hide her embarrassment. "‘Good Goodbye’. When you asked me about my favorite song, this was the first one that popped into my head, but I changed my mind to ‘Helsinki’."
Oh. This is...What is this? Is she embarrassed about it?
I’m confused and elated at the same time. Does her odd behavior mean there is...more? Otherwise, why would she be so weirded out by us liking the same song? I don’t allow myself to hope; after all, she just admitted that we’re friends again. I’m not going to push my luck.
"Well, you have good taste." I make light of it instead of feeding into the awkward tension, and it works. Lilly visibly relaxes and starts singing herself.
Chapter Nineteen
I loathe business dinners.The clients always expect to get wined and dined on the most crazy expensive items on the menu and then get shitfaced. All on my money. So predictable. I’m bored, but Hank says I have to be in this meeting. It’s for our current project in Florida, and they have questions only I can answer. We’re halfway through the project already. Why we couldn’t have done this over the phone I have no clue. I take a sip from my Chateau Petrus Pomerol—also the client’s choice—when my phone vibrates with an incoming email. I glance down at the device on the white tablecloth, and my hand with the wine glass freezes mid-air. The email came to the account I only use for one purpose.Her.
I excuse myself from the table and receive a pointed look from Hank, but I don’t care. I walk to the nearest restroom and into the closest stall. Away from prying eyes, I open the email and stare. I haven’t thought about this particular watcher in forever. Years ago, I installed a program in the Santa Rosa hospital system that watches only one file: Jane Doe, 22105017_0217. It’s just one small routine, undetectable unless one specifically looks for it and the reason why I have left it there for so long. Someone accessed Jane Doe’s file tonight. Her file. That can’t be a coincidence. It’s been over ten years. And to think that I almost didn’t reinstall it four years ago when they switched to the new patient system.
I send a quick text message to Hank with a bogus excuse and instructions to reschedule the meeting. I run this project, and I have to get home to my computer.
Fuck the client.
An hour later, I read the log file for the third time. Someone looked up the file at 7:02 p.m., but why? I haven’t had the need to hack into a surveillance feed in a while, and it takes me longer than it used to. I need to brush up on that skill. Once in, I easily find what I’m looking for. Pressing play, I watch the Emergency Room feed beginning at six p.m. Six different camera angles run simultaneously on my screen, and I scan them all meticulously. At 6:47, I pause the feed. There! Two nurses are talking to a young guy; his back is to two of the cameras and one partially shows his face. He can’t be more than nineteen. I press play again. The conversation doesn’t last more than a few minutes, and then he turns and walks out. The younger nurse leaves as well, and only the older one remains. I pause again and do a double-take. She’s about ten years older and probably twenty pounds heavier, but I have no doubt about who it is: Margery. She’s been an ER nurse for over twenty-five years and was the person I handedherto before sprinting out of the hospital.
Sure enough, Margery walks back into the nurses’ lounge and to a computer. So, she was the one accessing the file. The timestamp matches my log file.
Who is the boy?
I start accessing other feeds throughout the hospital but can’t find him anywhere. FUCK! I’m about to start over at an earlier time before he showed up at the ER when I watch the camera in the lobby. The timestamp shows 7:36, and there he is again. He is leading a girl with long blonde hair, by the hand, out of the sliding doors. No! My breath hitches. It can’t be.
My fingers feverishly fly over the keyboard until I find the right angle. There she is. My little Lilly—just not so little anymore.
Chapter Twenty
Why the helldid I admit to him that I like the song? I’ve been asking myself that for the last two days. But even more importantly, why does it bother me so much that we like the same song? I can’t shake this weird, indistinguishable gut feeling. Maybe I’m not over him lying to me after all? I’m starting to wish I could talk to Den. Well, I could, but not without telling her about the minor detail of being a kidnapping victimandhaving lost part of my memory. Yeah, no—I’m not ready for that conversation. I need to figure out as much as possible before bringing anyone else into this.
We spendNew Year’s Eve in another chain hotel near Kansas City. We cover as much ground as possible and still get a few solid hours of sleep. From here, the last leg is not more than a couple of hours.
The room is a similar setup to the place in Santa Rosa, clean and comfortable. Rhys even pays extra for a living area and kitchenette. It’s like a little apartment, and curling up on the couch feels completely natural.
Rhys gets nostalgic and suggests aBlademarathon. How can I say no to that? Finishing this year with my all-time favorite movies and Rhys probably reciting Hannibal King word for word—I grin from ear to ear.
Smiling, I think of how Denielle makes fun of me whenever she gets the chance. "Those movies are older than you!" Followed by her famous eye roll. I’ve seen her intimidate girls and guys alike with that, but I just shrug her off with, "It’s a classic. You don’t know what’s good." And then I make fun of her for herFriendsaddiction.
I miss my best friend.
We’ve texted a few times, but mostly things like:How r u? Wish u were here! Can’t wait to see u next week.
I’m sitting on the couch and watch as Rhys somehow connects his laptop to the TV. When I question him about why he carries around the exact connectivity cables in his backpack, all he says is, "I’m a guy."
How does that explain it. Whatever.
We start the first movie late in the afternoon, and afterBlade II,Rhys says he needs a break. He wants to shower and change before we keep going, which is fine with me. I showered this morning before we left, so while he is in the bathroom, I put on my PJs and resume my position on the couch.
Rhys is taking forever, and after checking my social media and sending Denielle a "Happy New Year’s Eve" text, I move over to the small table where we left the pizza we ordered earlier.
I bite into another piece when I realize he has opened the bathroom door to let some of the steam out. Through the opening, I see him in front of the sink. Shirtless. His blue-and-green plaid pajama pants riding low on his trim hips. My mouth stops chewing, and I can’t avert my eyes. Is it warm in here? He is washing his face, and with every move, the muscles in his broad back flex. I get glimpses of his incrediblytoned arms moving back and forth, scrubbing his face, and my lips part, heart pounding in my chest. Holy—has he always been this, uh...defined? I drop the pizza and rub my suddenly sweaty palms against my flannel pants.
Oh great, now I have grease stains on my pants.
I look up at the precise moment that Rhys turns toward the door and pulls a fresh navy t-shirt over his head. My eyes trail his chest down to his abs, and I gulp, choking on the pizza I forgot was still in my mouth.
