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“Can I help him, Mr. Slade?” I take another step toward the desk. But I keep my movements painfully slow. Unthreatening. I leave my Care Bear behind, and my friend. Mybestfriend. “Please let me help him. Because when we explain this to the cops, we want to be able to put him in their care still alive.”
“The cops are going to kill me.” Fresh, fat new tears roll along his cheeks. “I’m already a dead man. But I can’t go yet.” He brings his gun hand up and swipes his sleeve under his nose. “My baby needs surgery, and if I die, she’ll die too.”
“The cops willnotkill you.”
I lick my dry lips and inch closer to the guard while I wonder which is worse: letting Slade think he has a target on the back of his head? Or telling him I’m married to a cop? Which is likely to comfort him? To give my word credibility.
“The cops only want to get everyone out safely,” I murmur. “They do not take a life easily, so if I could get to Earl and make sure he’s okay, I can help you with the rest.”
“If we end this and let the police in, they’ll arrest me.” He scrubs his arm beneath his nose. “They’ll throw me in a cage.”
“Yes.” I watch Slade, but I watch Earl in my peripherals, too. His overlarge body. I hear the way he groans in pain. He’s an old man, and he’s been bleeding for ten minutes already. “They will arrest you, Mr. Slade. You’ve done something bad. But I can help—”
“If I go to prison, my daughter dies!” he cries and shouts in one. Frantic. Despairing. “They have her at the hospital, lady. She’s been there for months, and they finally know how to help her. But they won’t start until I get the money.”
“It’s not fair.”
I know that. He knows that.
Medical expenses are the reason I grew up poor. It’s why my parents worked countless jobs and sacrificed sleep my entire childhood. It’s why I was raised by a television and baked beans, and it’s why I live on simple food now. My palate never needed expanding; fancy food costs too much, and the canned aisle is both cheap and filled with protein.
Medical expenses are the reason I’ll never move beyond the economic bracket I currently exist in. My job pays decently. My rent is covered. Groceries. Electric. But my Factor VIII… I need constant refills on the medication and the supplies required to self-infuse every other day. Or I risk death.
“It’s not fair they’re holding your daughter hostage for money,” I tell him. “I know why you’ve done what you’ve done.”
“If the bank would just give me one more loan,” he moans. “Just one more, and Suzanne could get her surgery.”
“I know other doctors.” I stop when his gun comes up higher. I halt my steps and wait for his finger to move away from the trigger. “I know loads of doctors. Maybe I could talk to them.”
“I’ve tried talking,” he whines. “We’ve been talking for eighteen months. Now they refuse to speak in any language except money.”
In agony, the guard curls in on himself and coughs so blood sprays onto the tile floor.
I bring my gaze back to Slade. “Please let me go to him. He will die if you don’t let me.”
The inside of the bank is not silent. There are intermittent sniffles, and quiet crying. The single, little boy sobs and squeezes closer to his mother. The auditory evidence of cops and helicopters outside hums through the walls. But it’s not until a shrill telephone bleats from the manager’s desk that I startle so violently, my stomach threatens to rebel.
Slade swallows so I see the movement of his throat. Then he nods toward the desk. “Answer that.”
“But…” I look toward the man writhing on the floor. The dying guard who, even with my intervention, still might not make it. “He needs help.”
“I. Need. Help.” Slade points his gun my way and sends my heartbeat skittering. “Answer the phone. See what they want.” Then he studies the rest of the line. “Are there any more doctors in here?”
My eyes shoot to Aubree’s. Hers come to mine. But before she can stand, I firm my lips and shake my head.
It’s the smallest twitch, undiscernible to anyone who doesn’t know us, but my message is clear.
No.
“Anyone?” Slade shrieks. “She’s gotta answer the phone, so if someone else can help the guy, speak up now.”
Aubree’s eyes burn against mine, sky-blue and terror-filled. Her hands flex, and her pulse beats in her throat.
I shake my head a second time—Stay down, asshole, don’t make him notice you—but she thrusts her hand in the air and bounds to her feet. “Me!” She holds her hands up, palms facing Slade, and steps away from the line of hostages. “I’m her colleague. I’m also a medical examiner, but I think I can help him.”
He watches her. Suspicious. Questioning.
The phone call rings out, though the last trill continues to echo throughout the old building for seconds after.
