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I’ve made a lot of promises in my life—to the US Army, to Shane McIntyre—but this one weighs particularly heavy on me. There’s a lot at stake here. This girl has already suffered more than most people will in a lifetime. If there’s anything I can do to make her life a little bit easier, I’ll gladly do it.
After the parents take their leave, Shane says, “This is a challenging assignment, Jason. We’re all counting on you to keep your client safe. Her former bodyguard failed her miserably. We won’t make that mistake.”
I nod. “I won’t let you down.”
“I’m counting on it.”
* * *
When I arrive at the hospital, Ian Alexander and his partner, Tyler Jamison, are sitting with Layla in her room in the psych ward. I knock on her door, and Tyler steps out into the hallway with me.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jason,” he says, offering me his hand. We shake. “I was hoping Martin and Ruth would take my advice and hire one of Shane’s bodyguards. With your medical background, you’re perfect for the job.”
I peer around Tyler, through a partially-open door, into a quiet, dimly-lit room. It looks like any other hospital room, lots of beige and white. There’s a single bed in the room, surrounded by monitors and cabinets. There’s a utilitarian guest chair next to the bed and, across the room is a sofa that undoubtedly pulls out into a bed.
The room is eerily quiet, and most of the lights are off. I can just make out the form of Ian seated next to the bed, facing his sister and holding her hand.
“How is she?” I ask Tyler.
It’s weird seeing Tyler in civilian clothes—jeans and a button-up shirt. I’m used to seeing him dressed in a black suit and tie, all part of his former homicide detective persona. My understanding is he’s been fired for violating the conditions of his administrative suspension. It’s a shame. Chicago lost a highly-experienced, veteran homicide detective all because of a technicality. Tyler, along with Ian, rescued over a dozen young women that night. He deserved a medal, not termination.
Tyler frowns. “Medically, she’s fine. Her vitals are stable, and none of her physical injuries are life-threatening. It’s going to take some time, though, for the physical reminders of her ordeal to fade. She’s covered in bruises. As for the emotional damage—there’s no telling. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, so she’s not eating well, and that’s wreaking havoc on her blood sugar. She’s had multiple lows. The alarm on her monitor has gone off several times in the past few days. Everyone’s pretty stressed out.”
I nod, knowing exactly what a lack of food will do to a type 1 diabetic. “She knows about me? That I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
He sighs heavily. “You can come in and say hi, but don’t expect much.”
I nod. “I understand. Baby steps, right?”
“Right.”
I follow Tyler into the room and close the door behind me. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Layla is lying under a mound of blankets. All I can really make out is a pretty oval face and long, dark hair that spills across the stark white pillowcase.
I stand at the foot of her bed. “Hi, Layla. I’m Jason Miller, your new bodyguard.”
She doesn’t respond, which doesn’t surprise me. Instead, she turns her face to the wall.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking,” I say, hoping to reassure her. I keep my voice low and even. No pressure. “I just wanted to come in and say hi. We can talk later, when you feel like it. I’ll be hanging around in case you need me.”
Still no response. She lies completely still, as if she didn’t hear a word I said.
As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I start to make out the bruises on her pale, battered face. It sickens me to think about what she’s been through. And the fact that her former bodyguard—someone who was sworn to protect her—betrayed her is unthinkable. I don’t blame her one bit for being wary.
I nod to her brother. “Hey, Ian. I’ll be right outside the door. Let me know if she needs anything.”
Ian nods. “Thanks. We’ll keep you posted.”
Tyler walks me out into the hallway.
“What’s with all the blankets?” I ask.
“She couldn’t stop shaking. I think the weight is helping.”
“Sure, like a weighted blanket. They’re supposed to help with anxiety.”
