Page 32 of Seven+Four

“He wanted everything perfect for you.” Ollie smirks at me.

Now that I think about it, hadn’t he started the renovation a month ago? The rat infestation happened only two days ago. He was probably planning to invite me to the lake house over summer, since he knows how much I like to splash around in the water.

“How’s Meg?” I ask them.

“Her cheeks look…rosier,” Ollie hazards, and then adds with a heavy tone. “Linda…no change.”

She’s been glued to her wife’s hospital bed since she fell into a coma. Only goes back home to shower and make phone calls to her contacts, busy trying to find Phoenix. She is looking for her revenge, and she won’t stop until she’s punished the culprit—none of us will.

Meg is our mother, not by blood, but in all the other important aspects. With Linda, she gave us a home when we needed it the most, love, acceptance, help, and support. When I was younger, I couldn’t understand how someone not even blood related couldbe so affectionate toward me, so patient and understanding. I never met my parents. I was abandoned near a hospital and spent my first years in a group home before those horrible scientists took me away.

I hadn’t known what love was before I met my mothers and my brothers. I owe them all that I am. That’s why I let them baby me most of the time. My eyes fall to the black bracelet around my wrist.

“We need to go. See ya later.” Ollie squeezes my hand, as Rague lands a pat on my shoulder.

I move to the door and push it open, entering Meg’s hospital room. It’s a private VIP room—she’s given hefty donations to this hospital, plus Linda is friends with an administrator.

“Sari. How are you, kid?” Linda leaves the chair near the bed to come hug me. Her lemony scent reminds me of happy memories and warm nights.Kid. That’s how Meg calls me. Calls all of her kids.

“I’m okay,” I mumble against her shoulder.

She pulls back, and when her eyes fall on my face, her brows go up in question. “What happened?”

I can never hide anything from her. Being a retired secret agent doesn’t mean she lost her sharpness.

I try to feign serenity, mostly because I don’t want to think about Uri again. “Nothing.”

I left the lake house before he came back this morning. It’s kind of weird that my phone is not exploding with calls and texts from him right now.

“I want to check on Meg,” I tell her, slightly tightening my grip on her forearms.

She studies my face for a moment and then nods, letting me walk near the bed.

The tracheal tube coming out of her mouth seems fine; it makes her chest expand and deflate. Ollie was right. Her cheeks look pink today. I grab the chart and check the doses of the treatment she’s receiving. Everything looks in order. Then I move near the drip line to make sure the liquid is running smoothly through the tubes.

Linda has a brush in her hand and is running it through Meg’s salt-and-pepper hair. The white streaks have spread while she’s lying in this bed. I grab her hand—feels warm, the fingers knotted with that little bump on her middle finger from all the writing.

“Any episodes?” I ask. Meg had some convulsions a couple of weeks ago caused by electrolyte imbalances.

“No.” Linda caresses her head gently. “She’s been sleeping like Snow White.”

“Are we the Seven Dwarves then?” I ask, hoping to see another smile on Linda’s face.

She sniffs. “More like goblins.”

She’s probably right. We are still a handful. I let the white coat slide down my shoulders and place it on the small sofa near the window. The view to the snowy back garden is placid. There are a few patients strolling around, a couple of doctors smoking near the metal ashtrays, and a jogger running with her dog on aleash—the black collar around its neck reminds me of the nipple clamp I saw yesterday on that website.

“Spit it out, Sari.”

When I turn around, Linda is seated in the chair near the bed again. Her fingers crossed on her lap. Back straight. Watchful eyes fixed on me. That’s the pose she used to give us as kids to force out a confession—like who’d cracked the Ming dynasty vase in the entrance or set the Persian rug in the library on fire or recorded a video of our neighbor’s son beating the gardener and sent it to the police. She was quite proud of the last one. The pose has never failed. It’s still kind of intimidating after all these years.

“Do you think I’m weak?” I ask, letting yesterday’s upsetting mood get a hold on me again.

“Of course not. I’ve always thought you are the strongest among your brothers.”

I gasp. I need a moment to process her words. “The fact that I don’t feel the need to kill is seen as something uncanny in this family.”

She hums. “Maybe. But what happened to every one of you made you…peculiar. Each of you found a way to cope. Most of you kill for revenge, need, enjoyment—doesn’t really matter. Have you found your way to cope, yet?”

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