Most Likely (Most Likely #1) - Sarah Watson Page 0,76

front of a small hospital. It was pretty obvious that if this is where Isabel was getting treatment, it wasn’t for anything good.

CJ and Jordan followed Ava inside, and stood on either side of her as she walked up to the nurse at reception. The nurse greeted her in Spanish and Ava had to shake her head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak—”

“How can I help you?” the nurse barked in impatient English.

“I’m looking…” Ava said in a meek voice. “I’m looking for a patient. Isabel Castillo.”

The nurse seemed very confused. “A patient?”

“Yes,” said Ava.

Right then, there was a loud crash. Everyone in the room turned and stared at the woman who had just dropped a mug of coffee on the floor. She stood there in her white lab coat surrounded by spilled coffee and ceramic shards. She was staring right at Ava. She was staring so hard it was uncomfortable. There was something familiar about her, but CJ couldn’t quite place her. It all clicked into place when CJ saw the name on her security badge. DR. ISABEL CASTILLO. This was Ava’s mother.

Martha was completely underdressed for the Coventry Art Gallery. Her jeans and faded black Converse stood out in a room of polished blazers and Chelsea boots. She hadn’t even bothered to put makeup on. She felt stupid for not realizing that this would be a fancy affair.

A woman wearing the coolest pair of knee-high boots that Martha had ever seen walked up to her. “I can check that for you,” she said, motioning to Martha’s coat.

“Oh, that’s okay. I can just hold it.” Martha had to raise her voice to be heard over the music that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

“We’re requiring everyone to check their coats tonight.” Martha hesitated and the woman shifted, impatient. “It’s to prevent people from bumping into the art. And there’s no charge.” She added that last part with an inflection that seemed condescending.

Martha peeled off her coat and handed it to the woman. “Oh, wait.” She took off her hat and shoved it into the pocket. “Thanks.”

Martha walked through the gallery, feeling small and foolish among the chic crowd. She wondered what Martha Washington would think if she could see this. She’d probably be embarrassed and disappointed that her offspring was such a misfit. The paintings of Martha Washington always showed her as a matronly old lady in a bonnet, but that was only because the history books liked to portray her that way. A simple woman, happy to stand in the background and let her husband shine. The truth was, Martha Washington was legendary for her style and her wealth. None of which came from George. The money was all hers. Of course, so were the slaves. That was the other thing the history books liked to gloss over.

Martha (the current Martha, not the long-dead racist) walked into the next room and heard someone call her name.

“Martha.”

She turned. It was Logan. She’d never been more relieved to see anyone in her life. “Hi,” she said. “Please tell me you know where her painting is?”

He motioned behind him. Martha felt an immediate surge of pride when she saw it. She’d seen this painting before, but not like this. Not on the wall of a gallery with proper lighting and a crowd of impressed onlookers.

“Oh my god,” Martha said.

“I know. I’ve been through the entire gallery. The whole collection is good. But hers…”

Martha nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. It stood out. You couldn’t take your eyes off it. “I wish Ava was here to see this.”

“Me too.” He paused, then shifted. “Have you heard from her? I texted.” He shifted again. “She never responded.”

Martha shook her head. “Not from her. But Jordan and CJ have been sending me updates.”

“And?”

Martha shared the last information she’d heard. They were on their way to a hospital where Ava’s mom was possibly a patient. Logan processed it. “Thanks. Keep me posted, would you? I just want to know that she’s doing okay.”

Martha nodded and said, “Yeah, sure,” and she must have looked as torn up as she felt because he tilted his head slightly to the side and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she answered by rote. Then she shifted almost immediately. “No, actually. I’m not.” Martha was so desperate to unburden herself to someone. Anyone. She wanted to tell him the truth. Needed to. “I’m not okay, Logan. I’m not okay at all.”

The volume of the room rose at that exact moment with a burst