I watch as her chest rises and falls, accompanied by the low hiss of the machine that’s filling her lungs with oxygen. She’s in a seriously bad way. Lacey creeps closer to the Duchess’s bedside, peering cautiously at the empty shell of a body lying in the bed. She looks fascinated, morbidly intrigued by what she sees. She looks her slowly up and down, and then ever so carefully reaches out and takes the Duchess’s hand.
On the bedside table, a battered bible has been left out. It’s one I’ve seen a thousand times before—not a Gideon’s bible that most hospital bedside tables come equipped with, but the Duchess’s own bible; the same one she’s had for years. The leather cover is peeling and curled under at the corners, and the gold print on the front has all but worn away. Lacey sees it too and absently lifts the cover. A small rectangle of paper flutters out and drifts to the floor, slipping beneath the bed. I duck down to retrieve it, and as soon as my eyes catch on the image on its front, my hand fights to form a fist. It’s not paper, but a photograph. A fucking photograph of the Duchess and another woman I would recognize absolutely anywhere.
It’s a picture of her and my mother.
They’re grinning, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, staring straight into the camera. They look so young and so carefree, like they haven’t got a fucking problem in the world. This is an early picture of my mother, back before she died her hair to the dark color I always remember. She can’t be much more than nineteen. I had no idea she knew the Duchess. I had no idea she was even faintly connected to any of these people. Fucking hell. My mind is suddenly racing a million miles an hour.
“What is it?” Lacey asks, holding out her hand. I swallow, my tongue feeling far too thick in my mouth. I stare at the image hard, committing it to memory, and then I pass it over to Lacey.
“It’s nothing; just a picture. Put it back. Come on, we have to find Sloane.” I walk out of the room feeling sick to the bottom of my stomach. How well did the Duchess know my mother? And how the fuck did she manage to lie to me all those years?
******
My phone rings as we’re waiting for the elevator up to the third floor. On the other end of the line, Michael’s hushed voice sounds far too loud in the quiet of the abandoned hallway. “No sign of Charlie. And Sloane’s not down here,” he tells me. “Some nurse said she was paged to the Chief of Medicine’s office about twenty minutes ago. You should go up there.”
“Already headed in that direction.”
“Perfect. We’ll head there, too?”
“Yeah. Hurry.”
I hang up just as the elevator arrives. Lacey and I ride it up two floors and exit just as a woman in a dark pantsuit storms passed, talking on her phone. She doesn’t notice me and Lace, but I sure as hell notice her. The woman has FBI written all over her. Even Lacey can smell it on her.
“She’s probably someone we need to avoid?” she asks, shrinking back into the elevator.
“Someone you need to avoid,” I tell her. “Go and find Sloane. I’ll be right there, I promise.” Lace bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking her head.
“No, come on. Let’s just get Sloane and go, Zeth. Please!”
I place my hands on her shoulders, hunkering down to look her in the eyes. “I won’t be long. And I’m not gonna hurt her. It’s okay. Go. And. Find. Sloane.” I feel like I’m giving a command to Lassie, unsure whether she entirely understands what I’m telling her to do, but Lace gives me a slight nod of her head and shuttles out of the elevator just as the doors are about to close. She turns right…and I turn left, following after that FBI agent.
She hasn’t gotten far. I halt at the first bend in the corridor, peering around the corner to scout her location. She’s a mere three feet away, smashing her index finger into the buttons of a coffee vending machine, still on her phone. Her voice rises as she talks to someone, who clearly isn’t as smart as she would like them to be.
“I don’t care how long it takes, Jarvis, just do it! We can only legitimately keep her for twenty-four hours, and I want everything tapped. Her cell phone; her house; her car. Everything. That means you have an hour to find Judge Thomas and get him to sign off on it. This woman’s got no record. No priors. She’s a fucking doctor, for crying out loud. He won’t want to green-light a full observation, but it’s your job to convince him, okay?” She slaps her palm against the coffee machine, hissing under her breath. I’m pretty sure in those few sentences I’ve heard enough. She’s talking about Sloane; she has to be. If they’re planning on tapping her place, then there’s no two ways about it. Charlie or no Charlie, I have to get Sloane the hell out of here.