Page 61 of The Devils They Are

"Can I help you, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, hi," I start, turning on the charm. "I'm here on behalf of a… friend," I force out, trying not to focus on the fact that we're not really friends. Or that friends shouldn't know what it feels like to feel other friends come—much less sworn enemies.

"Name?" she asks warmly.

Clearing my throat, I keep my voice firm. "Bexley Spencer."

The nurse pauses, and immediately, I know I'm on the right track. It's obvious she knows who I'm referring to. Now, it's just a matter of whether or not she's willing to provide any information. HIPAA aside, I just need a fraction of guidance, anything to explain the sudden shutdown that I can use to start looking for answers.

"Lovely girl," the nurse muses sadly. "Who are you in relation to her?"

"A friend," I repeat, still struggling with the word. "She asked me to stop in and… do… something."

The lie falls out like word vomit, but I'm toeing a fragile line here. If I give away that I'm not meant to be here, I'll be back to square one.

But to my surprise, the nurse stands, giving me a look of relief. "Oh, good. We were wondering if someone would be along to collect them. I've tried to call Bexley a few times, but she hasn't answered."

I nod, pretending I know what she's referring to. "She's a bit distracted."

"I can't say I blame her," the nurse responds, gesturing for me to follow over to a cupboard. "Poor girl. She was so distressed last night. Let her know we're thinking of her."

Frowning, I watch as she pulls out a plastic bag, a hospital sticker affixed to it. She hands it to me, and I take it, fighting my curiosity as I resist the urge to look at it. "I'll pass on the message."

"Thank you. I left her a voicemail, passing on the details for our hospital coroner. She'll be able to liaise with them to make arrangements for the funeral and transfer from the morgue."

"Right," I say, swallowing the growing lump forming in my throat. "I'll let Bexley know so she can contact them."

The nurse smiles sadly. "Look after her. She's heartbroken—I don't think she knew all the details, so it was a shock to her. But I'm happy to see she has a friend to support her."

I glance at her name tag, giving a firm nod. "I will. Thanks, Sandra."

I stare at the contents on my bed, eyes scanning the clothes, cell, sheets of paper, wilting flowers and purse.

Inside, I'm disgusted with myself. The normal, decent thing would have been to drive right over to Bexley's house and hand her the bag without snooping. But given her less than welcoming demeanor earlier, I knew that would end badly. And I wanted to know for certain myself.

So now, I'm stuck with a bunch of items on my bed, fingers rifling through the belongings to confirm my suspicions.

I'm a sick fuck.

I go straight for the purse, digging out a wallet. Opening the black leather, there's a picture inside; a younger Bexley with a warm, smiling face, hugging an older woman. Lifting the driver's license from the card slot, I check the name—Savanna Spencer. The ID photo matches the person hugging Bexley, and I let out a sigh.

Savanna Spencer… as inBexley Savanna Spencer.

Shit. This is bad.

No wonder Bexley is out of sorts. Her mother is dead. Not just dead, but newly so.

Questions pop into my mind, leading to more unease and tension.

When? How?

We were just together last night, and she was happy. But the footage of her running out of the hospital haunts me.

Did she die when we were together?

It would explain a lot. Especially since the nurse made a comment that sounds like Bexley wasn't expecting it.

I quickly pack everything up again, feeling like an intruder. Shoving the bag under my bed, I take myself for a shower, hoping I can wash away the guilt that clings to me.

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