Page 6 of Save Me

I draw a deep breath so I won’t throw up. “Thatisa shame. Where have they taken him?” I try for casual curiosity, but my voice sounds strained.

Marguerite glances at me with concern. “Oh! Darling, it’s all terribly upsetting. Somewhere in Seattle. That’s where the family is from. They’re well off, so he’ll have the best care money can buy, for as long as he’s still with us.”

I can’t breathe. All I can hear is the blood whooshing in my ears and something’s stuck in my throat. I see Marguerite’s lips moving but can’t make out what she says. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re rather pale, darling. Perhaps you should sit down.” She pats my arm and appears to be genuinely concerned. I’m strangely comforted by that. “Why don’t I come back tomorrow, and we can discuss the painting then?”

I manage to smile and incline my head in thanks before making my way to my office. There are a million ideas flooding my mind, none of which are smart or sane. I throw myself into my leather desk chair and tap the keyboard, cursing the few seconds it takes for my laptop to flare to life. My fingers fly over the keys, searching for the phone number before I pull out my cell and furiously dial Washington Medical Center. I wait forever for someone to pick up.

“Washington Medical Center. How may I direct your call?”

The perky voice on the other end of the line makes me unreasonably angry. I take a breath, ready to loose my tongue on her, and pause, reminding myself to direct my anger and fear appropriately. I am upset, but not at this woman. I’m worried and afraid because of a situation not of her making. She does not deserve my ire. It’s a struggle, but I somehow keep my voice professional and calm, proud that I’ve derailed the snark. My therapist would be so proud. “Good afternoon. I’m trying to reach a patient. Oliver Laszlo. I don’t know which room he’s in.”

There’s a pause and then very loud clacking of fingers on a keyboard before the cheery voice is back. “I’m sorry, sir, that room isn’t taking calls. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. Thank you.” I hang up, both relieved and annoyed at the security measure. At least I’ve confirmed he’s there. I stare at my phone, trying to decide just how reckless is too reckless. Fuck it. “In for a penny…” I dial Oliver’s cell. Even after a year I remember the number by heart. It rings several times, and I’m sure it’s going to go to voicemail when there’s a subdued voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

I want to cry at how exhausted he sounds. “Oliver?”

“Ash? god! Is that you?” His voice is rough and his words are slow. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

I blink furiously to clear my vision. “I had to. I heard you were admitted.” It’s so good to hear his voice, and I’ve missed him so much. The full weight of it hits me hard and I shake out my hands to fling away the stress and fight to keep control, so I don’t cry into the phone.

There’s a brief pause and a heavy sigh. “Yeah. It’s not good, Ash.” He sounds resigned, and it makes me sick to my stomach, even though we knew this would happen. Just before I went into witness protection, Oliver’s response to his medications had diminished, and there weren’t any others left to try. It was the same progression of his mother’s illness. Oliver has been living on borrowed time for years.

“How long?” I’m grateful he doesn’t make me clarify.

“A few weeks. A month at most.”

I press my fist against my mouth to stifle the sob that fights to get out. We’re silent for a few moments and I use the time to get myself under control. Crying will not help Oliver, and he needs me. I make a decision.

As is usual, Oliver reads my mind. “Don’t do it, Ash. It’s not worth the risk to your life. It won’t change anything.”

I sniff loudly and shut off my laptop. “Last I heard, you are in a hospital bed and unable to stop me from making foolish choices.” I wipe away the tears on my face and clear my throat, more in control of myself now that I have a plan. “I love you, Oliver. You’re family, and always worth the risk.”

“Ash…”

I hang up before he can convince me I’m being stupid and head toward the door at the far end of my office, which leads to my apartment over the gallery. I take the stairs two at a time and barrel through the front door, striding toward the bedroom. The thirteen-hour drive will put me there early tomorrow morning, and I’ll stay as long as I can. After a few moments of searching, I locate my leather duffel in the back of my closet and, with little thought, begin stuffing clothes into it.

I trade my suit for dark jeans and a black pullover sweater, then push up the sleeves as I shove my feet into my Docs, lacing them haphazardly. I leave the suit in a crumpled heap on the bed. That’s a future-me problem. I dash into the bathroom, grab my toiletries kit from under the sink, and toss it into the duffel. Whatever’s in there will have to suffice. If I’m missing something, I’ll buy it later. I give a quick glance around the room to make sure I’m not missing anything obvious, grab my phone charger from the side table, then zip the duffel closed and take the elevator to the garage. I’m in my car and on the Five before I remember I haven’t told Cole I’ll be away. I dial the number and wait for him to pick up.

“Hello, Ashley.” His voice is so soft he sounds so other worldly on the phone.

“Cole, I’ll be out of town for a few days. I need you to manage the gallery while I’m gone. Alright?”

“Yes. Not a problem. Is everything alright?”

No. Nothing is right. “It’s fine. Thank you, Cole. I’ll call you in a few days.” I hang up and grip the wheel tighter, willing myself to Seattle.

* * *

It’s just after seven in the morning when I finally pull into the parking lot at the hospital. I’ve had five cups of coffee along the way, and no sleep, but I’m not feeling it yet. I’m not allowing myself to feel anything. If I give in to the tiredness, I’ll lose my grip on everything else. I stare at the hospital and take a breath, preparing myself for the next step. No one should recognize me. My hair is longer, past my shoulders now, with an undercut, and I shaved off my mustache when I assumed my new identity. There isn’t anything I can do about the tattoos but pull down my sleeves and hope it’s all enough. I’d texted with Oliver briefly at the last rest area, so I know which elevator to take and which room he’s in. The truly tricky part is going to be getting past the guard at Oliver’s door, but I have a plan for that, and hopefully I’ll have luck as well.

I stride confidently across the parking lot like I’m any other visitor, and don’t stop when I get inside. I head right through the main entrance, then take a quick left down the first hall, as if I’ve done this a million times and know exactly where I’m going, which I do, thanks to Oliver. The less frequently used elevators are on this end of the building, and I’m not likely to be stopped. I glance in each office as I pass until I see what I’m looking for. It’s ridiculously easy to snatch a white lab coat from a desk chair. I ball it up under my arm, then head to the elevators.

The wait is interminable and my heart leaps into my throat each time someone walks down the hall, although I don’t think it shows. Just standing here is allowing my nerves to kick in and I debate taking the stairs but reject it. Few hospital employees use the stairs, and it might make me stand out. When the elevator chimes and the doors finally open, I rush inside and jab the second-floor button, smashing it repeatedly, like that has ever made elevator doors close faster.

---