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"Don't answer that," Jane said quickly. "At least, not until the police get here to take your statement."
We were interrupted by a nurse dressed in scrubs covered with multi-colored ice cream cones. He carried a chart and smiled when he saw that I was awake.
"Well, look who decided to join the living?" he said in a thick Caribbean accent. "How you doing, girlfriend?"
I gave a weak smile, and the nurse smiled back, moving around to take my vitals.
"My name is Henri, your nurse until about three o'clock today. And where is that handsome fella been living here the last three days?"
I glanced at Jane.
"He'll be back," she said, more to me than to the nurse.
I nodded while Henri continued to take my oxygen levels, blood pressure, and whatever else the charts at the end of the bed told him to do.
"Yes, yes, you're looking good for someone who's been dead to the world for seventy-two hours," he said with another bright smile. "I'll just let Dr. Gibbons know you're up and about. Can I get you anything? Maybe ice for that throat? You must have a mean case of dry mouth."
Gratefully, I nodded. Several minutes and five ice chips later, I finally felt like I could speak without cracking my throat in half.
"What happened?" I asked Jane. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Chicago?"
She gave me a look like I was insane. "You didn't really think I would go back to Chicago when my best friend's been kidnapped and hospitalized, did you?" She shrugged. "The SA likes me. Gave me an extra week before I start––unpaid emergency leave, of course, but I'll take it."
Her words brought back the chain of events in sudden, sensory patches. The sheath of my blue silk dress. The sparkle of the necklace I'd given back to Brandon. His face, long and heartbroken as he'd discovered I'd had an abortion and hidden it from him. The long fingers of my mother, trailing the edge of a bathroom sink while she'd tried to blackmail me with the information. The smirking lips of Miranda, his ex-wife, and Jared, my once-friend, as they'd told Brandon anyway.
The stink of the city streets as I'd wandered home. The sweat staining Victor Messina's collar. The rubbery feel of his fingers at my waist. The taut muscles in Brandon's neck when he'd somehow rescued me.
He'd come for me. And he wasn't hurt. The realization caused my chest to deflate with relief.
But where was he?
I clutched my head in my hands, suddenly overwhelmed by everything. Jane put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and rubbed.
"Take it easy," she said. "Maybe eat some of that ice cream, since you seriously look like death. You'll be able to manage all of this, especially with my rapier wit to guide you."
I snorted, but took the ice cream Henri had brought. She was right, of course. An empty stomach didn't make anything better.
I heard the voice down the hall before I actually saw him.
"She's up?"
Closing my eyes, the cold vanilla still on my tongue, I listened to the sound of Brandon pestering the doctor.
"I want her moved to the VIP wing as soon as possible. Cost isn't an issue. She shouldn't be in a public room like this; there's too much of a security risk."
Mmmm. Bossy Brandon. Hot Brandon.
Jane snorted, and my eyes popped open.
"Well, now I really know you're not dead," she said with a shake of her head. She waved a finger over her face. "Everything, babe. I can see it all."
I flushed and dove back into my ice cream. I heard the murmur of someone's––the nurse's? The doctor's?––responses, but I couldn't understand what they were saying.
"Oh," Brandon's voice replied. "I see. Well...that's just great."
As if my brain was programmed to isolate his movements apart from the rest of the din, I listened to the sound of his footsteps, big and sure, making their way over hard tile toward the room. When he popped inside, it was like the sun entered. A tall, forlorn, extremely tired-looking sun.
His blond hair was still slightly damp from a shower, curling more than usual around his brow and at the top of his shirt collar. Even though it was the middle of the week (a Tuesday? Wednesday? I wasn't sure), he was dressed casually in a pair of comfortable black joggers, a faded Harvard Law T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, and his favorite old Red Sox hat, the brim curled and frayed over his face. He hadn't bothered to shave, and had about three days of dark blond growth covering his square jaw.
