Page 124 of Darcy
Why is he here? What does he want? Does he know who Darcy is to us? Does he know what happened to her?
The hollowness in my chest aches with the final question. Though I’m not as eager as Arlo to grab hold of hope—I’ve been disappointed too often—I can’t help but wonder…
Why would he be here if she was dead?
Are we going to her funeral?
It takes hours. I follow our route on my phone, trying to figure out where we’re headed. When we reach the outskirts of Houston, I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. I didn’t want to come back here. I don’t think I can stomach seeing the city that took her from us.
The driver finally pulls up outside a mid-rise classical revival style building, then gets out and opens a door for us.
Man leads us up the steps, presses his thumb against a concealed scanner, and enters without knocking.
Inside is calm, but sterile… It’s not a typical clinical setting, so I don’t make the connection until a male receptionist in scrubs greets us.
This is a hospital. A very well-funded one.
My heartbeat picks up speed, but I crush it.
Hospitals have morgues too.
“Mr. Belladonna, nice to see you again. Are these the friends you mentioned?”
Man nods once.
“Well, they’re still in the same rooms as last time. Go on up. Please, feel free to stay as long as you like. Visiting hours don’t apply to our black card members.”
Man nods, then beckons us to follow him again. We take two flights of stairs, passing doctors and nurses in scrubs, as well as their well-dressed clientele.
I suppose it makes sense assassins wouldn’t use a regular hospital, but this is just weird.
When he opens the door to a private room, my breath whooshes out of me as I see the person in the bed is male.
“Well, boys, those disappointed faces are darn righ’ insultin’,” Sully drawls raspily. “I’m fine, so get outta here. I’d rather be staring at the pretty nurses than your ugly mugs.”
That draws a half-hearted chuckle from me. The old Texan looks rough. He’s plastered in some strange plastic wrap that seems to be spread over the burns covering a good portion of his body. It’s only been ten days since the events at the villa, but whatever they’re doing to him must have helped, because he looks a hell of a lot better than I thought he would.
“Glad you’re alive, old man,” Dodger croaks.
He snorts. “The one you’re looking for is in the next room. Go on. But I expect flowers and chocolates next time you visit. And one of you better smuggle me a pack of puros too, but hide it from the docs. They don’ like me lighting up.”
“Sneaking in contraband already, Mr. Sullivan?” a nurse asks, brushing past us and into the room.
“Never, Lara,” he swears, the picture of innocence.
“Mmm hmm,” she says, crossing over to him.
“He’s in good hands,” Dodger mutters, pulling me back out of the room before we can watch any more of the old man’s terrible flirting.
Man is waiting by a second door, and my breath falters, hands curling into fists. I can’t take this anymore. Either her body is in there, or she’s alive, and not knowing is killing me.
I go to shove past him, but his hand on my chest stops me.
“If you don’t love her, don’t walk through that door.” His voice is quiet, but surprisingly cultured.
What kind of—? I remove his hand and push open the door.
Only to come face to face with the most machines I’ve ever seen attached to one person in my life.
