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I sneered at the thoughts of her.
It’s your fault, I told her at five years old.
The words were hard then, but by seven, they flowed easily from my mouth. Those words earned me praise from my father, and I learned quickly that praise would always be better than what my mother was getting from him.
White knuckles grip the steering wheel as I battle the two men inside of me.
One man doesn’t give a shit. That little girl is only one in millions that doesn’t have a perfect life. Who cares what happens to her?
The other man, the one that rarely pokes his head out of my subconscious, screams at me that she deserves better. He places blame on me for not acting sooner, for not putting a bullet in Varon’s head the day I showed up in Telluride.
Most days, he’s easy to silence.
Tonight, he’s louder than he’s ever been, and I hate him more than ever.
Decision made, if only to ease the internal battle, I climb out of my truck and head inside the hospital.
I knew this was coming. I knew when I went back to my hotel and dressed in slacks and what many consider a nice button-down shirt that this was the direction I was heading, and I hate the time that I’ve wasted debating it. This problem could’ve been solved hours ago if I hadn’t fought so hard against it.
Dutifully, I head to the gift shop, voicing my thanks when the clerk tells me they were about to close, but she’ll give me time to pick out a gift. Thankful for shopping during business hours despite them not being scheduled to close for ten minutes is expected, so I offer it. Telling her that the sign on the fucking door says open wouldn’t go over well. It would draw attention, and that’s the last thing I need tonight.
I don’t speak as I pay cash for the small, stuffed cat.
The goal is to always be as unremarkable as possible. People shouldn’t remember me.
Average height, average build. I look just like everyone else.
Brown hair. Brown eyes. Boring.
I’m not worth a second glance as I climb off the elevator in my plaid shirt and chinos. My shoes don’t even make noise on the linoleum.
I don’t fidget or let anyone catch me looking around. I don’t make eye contact with anyone.
When questioned what time they went on break and if they saw anything suspicious, the nurses and other hospital staff won’t even be able to remember they saw me.
The placard outside her door lists two patients—Katie Matson and Jane Doe.
Bingo.
Like I suspected with the influx of flu cases every medical facility has seen since Thanksgiving, I’m easily able to slip inside her room unseen.
The other little girl in the room might pose an issue as she watches me walk past her bed, but I won’t worry about that until she becomes a problem. I’m not one to look for complications before they occur. Wasting energy won’t do me any good.
Blue eyes, one encircled by various shades of purple and blue, blink at me when I pull back the curtain separating the two beds in the room.
To her credit, she doesn’t jolt or look terrified.
She also doesn’t smile when I hold out the stuffed animal.
She takes it dutifully, her fingers barely clasping the faux fur.
She’s been taught not to cherish things, not to show emotion until she knows what’s expected of her.
Varon was an excellent teacher.
I hold my hand out.
She takes it bravely, but the tremble in her tiny fingers betrays her fear.
