I’m being naïve when I ask, “Is he okay?” Best case scenario, he misbehaved and he’s been isolated somewhere, left to be tortured by guilty thoughts.
“He’s just been moved from the ICU to a special guarded room. His condition has improved from life threatening to critical. We tried calling you yesterday, but there was no reply.”
I brace myself against the counter as shock floods me. Even knowing the answer is not enough to defend against the horror of it. “Was he attacked?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
My eyes well up with tears that spill over and burn the scrapes on my cheeks. “Critical? Where is he?”
“You can visit him,” Hilroy says. “He was transferred to Holden General last night. You’ll need ID when you get to the hospital. And you’ll be checked for weapons and paraphernalia, as usual.”
I hang up and drop the phone on the counter with a clatter. My knuckles turn white as I grip the granite edge and try not to lose it.
“What’s going on?”
I whirl to find Chris in the living room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He’s shirtless, and for a second I just stare at him, the oddly domestic scene so incongruent with our reality. There’s a sad, lost part of me that wishes this were real. Wishes this was my life, minus the stolen money and the prison and the lies. Wishes I had somebody who was there when I needed someone, and not because he needs something from me.
“My father...” I try not to be a wimp about it, but my voice breaks and more tears fall. I swipe a hand across my eyes. “My father’s in the hospital. They said there was an incident.”
“Was he attacked?”
“They wouldn’t confirm. But what else could it be?” My vision is starting to blur, but it’s not tears, it’s panic. Guilt. “I have to go.”
“Reese.” Chris blocks my exit from the kitchen. “It’s not safe. They know what you look like now. The hospital could be a trap. That phone call could be a trap.”
I stare at him, disbelieving and believing at the same time. “Then you call,” I say, trying to dodge him and only succeeding in being boxed in better. “Call your friend at the FBI and ask him if it’s true.”
He sighs. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not exactly doing the right thing here, Reese. I can’t tell them I need to know because my hostage is wondering.”
“I’m not your hostage anymore. You lost your handcuffs, remember? You’re a shitty abductor.”
“You’re mean in the morning.”
“I’m mean all the time,” I say. “Ask my friends.”
“Be smart about this.”
“I can’t not go to the hospital, Chris. The caller ID said the call was from Wakeman. That’s the best I can do. It’s not like the hospital switchboard is going to confirm they’ve got a prisoner on their watch.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.” I push past him. “I know how to hide in this city.”
DENISE DISEMBARKS AT the bus stop in front of Holden General Hospital. She wears her favorite purple scrubs with a cartoon dog pattern, her red hair twisted into a sloppy knot at her nape. Thick-framed reading glasses do their part to mask my face, as does more makeup than I’m comfortable wearing. It takes a lot of powder to cover up bruises.
Two nurses get off ahead of me, and I follow close behind as though we’d traveled together. If Johan or Davor are watching the front entrance, I don’t see them, but they don’t jump out of the bushes to accost me, either, so I assume my guise works.
Once inside, the nurses peel off on their own agendas, and I approach the admissions desk. “Hi,” I say, sliding off my glasses. “I’m Reese Carlisle. I’m here to see my father.”
The orderly manning the station sizes me up, unconvinced, even when I pull out my wallet to show my ID. “Hang on,” he says, picking up the phone.
I reach over to stop him, and he arches an eyebrow in warning. “Can we be... subtle, please? I’m trying not to attract attention.”
“Uh-huh.” He turns his back and speaks into the receiver in a voice so low I can’t make out the words. After a second he turns back. “Come through here,” he says, standing and gesturing through a set of swinging doors.
I walk through cautiously, feeling a little bit stupid in my getup now that I’m surrounded by actual health practitioners. Fortunately, everyone’s too busy to judge my deceiving fashion choices, so we wait together