Page 82 of Gone Before Goodbye
When Maggie blinks her eyes open, a man’s face is staring down at her.
It’s not Marc, of course. It’s Charles Lockwood. The playboy from Ragoravich’s ball.
“You’re okay,” he says to her. “You were hurt in a car accident. But you’re okay now.”
The dream flees. It is amazing and merciful how fast that happens. The only remnants are the tears on her cheek. Maggie opens her mouth to speak to him, but nothing comes out.
“Here,” Lockwood tells her. “Take these.”
He scoops some ice chips into a cup and puts them in her mouth. Maggie knows the move—it gives someone water but won’t let them take in too much at once. Charles wears a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his knotted forearms. He checks her vitals. The playboy is gone now. The physician has emerged.
“Don’t try to talk yet. Just tap your finger once for yes, twice for no. Do you remember the accident?”
It takes a second and then the memories of her escape rush in—opening the bedroom window, the biting cold, the roof, the gunfire, the Ferrari. It’s all there. Jumbled maybe. But enough.
They’d chased her. They’d shot at her. They wanted her dead.
She had tried to get away. Something hit her. She lost control…
She signals yes. She does so with the finger tap, but she also tests out a head nod. The pain is minimal.
“How…?” she manages to say.
“You reached out to me.”
She gives him a confused face.
“The phone number you called. Our emergency line. It came through. We moved fast.”
Emergency line. She tries to remember. Her head is swimming. The phone number. The one the Marc griefbot had given her. When she tries to speak, Lockwood shakes his head and tells her that she should rest. She ignores that and tries again to shake her vocal cords free. When she finally gets out a few words, they sound muffled and far away. “You knew Marc.”
“I did, yes. I assume he gave you my phone number?”
How to answer that…? She can’t. Not really. So she just nods.
“There’s a lot to tell you, Doctor McCabe,” Lockwood says. “I need your mind clear for that. It’s not yet. I know, I know. You think you’re ready. But you’re not.” He moves his chair closer to her. “First though, I need to know why you’re here.”
How to even explain it all to him?
“I need to know why you’re staying with Oleg Ragoravich.”
He waits. She lets her head fall back on the pillow. Her eyes close.
Does she trust him?
Marc—or the griefbot version anyway—had given Maggie his phone number and told her to call. That means when he was alive, Marc trusted Charles Lockwood. Shouldn’t that be enough? Maybe. But then again—and it may be because her head can’t stop spinning—
how does she know what Charles Lockwood just told her about getting a call is true? Everyone has been playing head games with her. She knows that now. None of this is accidental or coincidental. Ever since Dr. Barlow approached her at Johns Hopkins, Maggie has felt the thing she hates the most—out of control. She feels manipulated, lied to, like she’s fighting against too strong a current. So is Charles Lockwood another part of that? Is he telling the truth or another liar?
There is one way to know for sure: Ask the griefbot.
She sucks on more ice chips. There’s an IV in her arm. She takes a second or two to scan herself and assess her own injuries. There are places of soreness and pain, but she feels pretty damn good. She wants to ask him about that, about her injuries, but she gets that right now Charles is focused on his own questions. When the chips melt and her mouth is moist enough to speak, she says two words: “My phone.”
“What?”
“I need my phone.”
“I don’t advise you calling anyone,” he says. “They’ll be monitoring anyone close to you.”
