Page 39 of Twins for the Enemy

I slow down, but my mind is still racing, figuring out the fastest route to the ER.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like the unpredictability.

I don’t like the lack of control.

I don’t like her being in pain.

But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here, ensuring that everything is being done to keep her safe and mitigate her pain.

I know the day will come when I’m the threat. One day, she’ll find out that it’s my sister she left to die in the fire, and she’ll know that I always planned to take everything from her—the thief in plain sight robbing the hidden arsonist.

I’ll deal with these impulses later. I’ve got seven months to bury them before I send her to prison. Our twins will be born, and whatever this is between us—it ends.

A clean slate.

At least, that’s the lie I keep telling myself.

When terror reaches its peak, it overflows into rage. By the time I stop at the patient intake desk, it takes all of my self-control not to dismantle the door separating me from the physicians.

“My wife slipped on some ice,” I say. “I need her to see adoctor.”

“We need you to fill out these forms.” The woman hands me a clipboard without looking up from her computer. “It’s just personal information, medical history, consent forms, HIPAA—”

“No, she needs to see someone right now.”

She glances up at me. “Sir, I understand your distress, but we have a sys—”

“Do you know what the name on the trauma center of this hospital is?” I demand.

“Sir?” she asks. I wait, less than patiently. “It’s… it’s the Ragdon Trauma Center.”

“I’m Kieran Ragdon,” I say. “So get me a fucking doctor and a room, or my next donation will be to a developer that will turn this hospital into a weed dispensary.”

The woman’s hand hesitates over the phone. A doctor in a white coat strides up to the desk.

“Mr. Ragdon, please accept our apologies. Come back here, and we’ll help your wife.”

He pushes on a blue square button, and the doors that lead deeper into the hospital open. Farah clings to the fabric of my shirt as I carry her, following the doctor through the doors and down a hallway. He stops at a room, flips a plastic flag up beside the doorframe, and indicates for us to step in.

I take Farah inside, laying her down on the bed. Her skin is pale, but she gives me a soft smile.

“I’m currently helping a patient, but I will find another doctor who can assist immediately,” the doctor says. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Ragdon, and for your donations.”

“If anything happens to my wife that could have been prevented by prompt care,” I say, “I’ll sue this place straight into bankruptcy.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

Leaning close to Farah, it takes me a second to realize she’s still gripping onto my shirt.

“You don’t need to be such a dick,” she murmurs. “I think they believe that I’m your wife. You don’t need the theatrics.”

I slowly loosen her fingers from my shirt, but as they start to tighten again, I let her grip my hand. I’d never considered that anything I was doing was an attempt to convince the hospital staff that she was my wife. I only wanted her to be taken care of, to be prioritized, to not be in pain.

I keep a hold of her hand as I sit on the edge of her bed. I glance over at the whiteboard, where the nurse and doctor will write down their names and jot down any drugs they give Farah. On the other side, a red container with a biological hazard symbol is hanging on the wall.

“Are you worried about the twins?” Farah asks, her voice sounding a bit stronger. “You seem tense.”

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