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As Detective Taylor takes a moment to consider his options, I try to keep my breathing steady, focusing on the steady beep of the monitors surrounding me. The air in the hospital room seems to grow thick with anticipation, the sterile scent of disinfectant and latex mixing with the warm sunlight drifting in through the window.
“Alright,” Detective Taylor finally concedes, his voice tinged with reluctance. “I can’t give you all the details, but I can give you the number the call came from.” He raises a warning finger before I can interrupt. “That’s all I can tell. Do with that information what you will but remember” —his eyes narrow— “you’re not the only one looking for her.”
“Thank you, Detective,” I manage to choke out, my heart swelling with gratitude and hope. “I promise I won’t let this information go to waste.”
Detective Taylor nods, his expression softening slightly before he rises from his chair. “Just remember, Mr. Hills, we’re on the same side here.” With that, he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, leaving me to contemplate my next move.
As I lay there in my hospital bed, the sun casts long shadows across the sterile white walls. The girl who saved my life is out there, somewhere in the golden haze of this city, and with Detective Taylor’s reluctant help, I now have a way to find her. I may be bruised and battered, but my resolve has never been stronger.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. I look into Detective Taylor’s eyes, searching for any sign of empathy or understanding. “You have to understand, Detective,” I say, my voice cracking with vulnerability. “I owe this girl everything. She saved my life, and if I can’t find her, I’ll never be able to repay that debt.”
Detective Taylor sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he paces in front of the window. He seems to be wrestling with something, a battle between duty and compassion playing out behind those sharp, calculating eyes.
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my response. As he heads for the door, I can tell that his internal struggle isn’t completely resolved, but for now, he’s willing to help—and that’s more than I could have hoped for.
“Good luck, Mr. Hills,” he says as he steps out into the bustling hospital corridor, leaving me alone once again with my thoughts and determination to find the girl who saved my life.
The faint scent of antiseptic and the distant sound of footsteps echo through the room as I look at Detective Taylor, my heart pounding with anticipation. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, all I see is the internal struggle on his face before giving me a piece of paper with some numbers scribbled on it.
I got you!
While the Detective leaves the room, my eyes stay focused on the parchment, my mind starting to plan. First step, get the hell outta here.
Chapter Four
Spencer
ThelightfromtheTV fills my living room as I sit cross-legged on the floor, my eyes locked onto the screen. Captions scroll at the bottom, keeping me informed about the latest news.
My brows furrow in concentration, each line of text deepening the creases. As the news races by, I search for any mention of the man I found in the alley—any hint that he’s still alive or an update on his condition. My thoughts are consumed by him; it’s like a strange magnetism that I can’t shake off.
“Local woman finds an injured man in an alley” flashes across the screen, but the details remain sparse. Desperation claws at me, urging me to find out more, though I know I should focus on my own life—my bills, my work flipping furniture. But this man, this stranger I barely know, has somehow taken up residence in my mind.
That night at the hospital, a grim-faced detective arrived. He flashed his badge and proceeded to ask questions but didn’t seem satisfied with the answers we gave him. He warned us not to tell anyone about the crime, fearing that the perpetrator might come after us. Gianna wasn’t present, so she had very little information to provide.
“Spencer, you’re obsessed,” I scold myself, shaking my head. “Get a grip.” But even as I try to push him from my thoughts, my heart races with worry. The simple leggings and sweatshirt I’m wearing suddenly feel suffocating, trapping me in my own unease.
“Authorities identified the man as Percival Hills, an important sports agent who recently signed Anastasio Rivera, the new star ofTheSan Diego Wave,” the captions continue, offering no reassurance. A wave of frustration washes over me. “San Diego Police Department is investigating the leads, but there is nothing new until now. Mr. Hills condition remains private.”
“Damn it,” I whisper, my fingers clenching into fists as my eyes narrow, determination rising within me. I won’t give up so easily—not when there’s still hope, I have a name now.
My heart continues to race, and I can’t shake the feeling that I need to know more about him. It’s as if my entire being is consumed by a whirlwind of curiosity and concern that I can’t seem to control. What is this pull, this magnetic force, that compels me to want to help him? I struggle with myself, knowing that I have other priorities in life that need my attention.
“Think, Spencer,” I tell myself, tugging at a loose strand of hair. “You’re resourceful. You can find a way.”
“Alright, Spencer. Time to get some answers,” I say to myself, gripping my phone tightly. I scroll through my contacts until I find Gianna’s number, tap her name, and start texting with determined presses of my finger.
I need you to come home.
An hour and a half later, when I’m ready to work, my response is delivered.
“Hey, Spence! What’s up?” Gianna’s cheerful smile appears at my shop threshold.
“Gianna, I need your help.” My hand trembles slightly, betraying my anxiety despite my best efforts to look confident. “Remember that man I found in the alley? I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve watched the news, they said very little, but his name.”
“Aw, babe, I’m sorry,” she replies sympathetically, her usual exuberance tempered by genuine concern. “What do you want me to do?”
Gianna can understand and use ASL, but she always complains about being too slow at signaling, so usually, I read her lips.
