“No,” Sam says, the single word stopping me in my tracks, his voice firm. “Here’s me protecting you. The right way.” He takes a deep breath and points to the iPad, at the address still on the screen. “That girl doesn’t know you, Kyle. She is not Marley. There is no Marley. So get over your dream life and start living your real one. This one.”
He turns and walks out the door, closing it loudly behind him. I look down at the address, at the pile of sticky notes forming a thin layer across my bed.
It looks completely crazy.
But the only thing crazier would be giving up on her.
34
I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep as I wait for the night nurse to leave. I pop one eye open to see her reaching up to flick off the lights, her features disappearing into darkness as I hold my breath, waiting. The second the door clicks shut behind her, I’m on the move.
I call an Uber, placing the pin a safe distance outside the entrance to the hospital, before throwing my legs over the side of my bed and standing, my bad leg almost buckling under the weight.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself, grab my crutches for support, and hobble over to the cabinet. The black duffel bag my mom brought is sitting at the bottom, and I pull out a pair of Nike shorts and a T-shirt. I slide them on as quickly as I can, which is not quick at all, my leg struggling to comprehend the urgency of this entire operation.
I peer into the hallway, looking in both directions.
Nine o’clock, right after my vitals were checked, the perfect time to strike. The top of the hour brings with it an empty nurses’ station, ideal for me to hobble from my room to the exit without getting caught.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the glass doors of the hospital slide shut behind me, my breakout nearly complete.
Where’s my Uber?
I stare anxiously at the hospital entrance, my eyes flicking from the main road to the door and back again, praying for John in a red Prius to pull onto the drive before I get dragged back to my room. I try to keep my cool as I wait, but the thought of seeing Marley in just a few minutes makes my heart hammer in my chest. Will she be angry? Will she trust me again? What has this been like for her? Somehow I just know she’ll be the one to understand all of this.
There’s a flash of headlights, and the Prius glides to a stop in front of me. I yank open the door and quickly slide inside. My head is fuzzy and my leg is throbbing, but I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse.
We drive and I watch the time tick down on the GPS, the space between me and Marley shortening by the second. The road flies by underneath us, the yellow dividing lines in the center pulling me closer and closer to her.
Soon we’re turning onto Glendale Street, slowing to a stop in front of a modest white house at the corner, a big tree standing in the front lawn. An uneasy feeling swims into my stomach as I look at the wilted flower bushes lining the porch, the overgrown lawn.
This is… not quite what I pictured.
I glance down at my phone to see it’s almost nine thirty.
Is it too late? Will she answer the door?
“You want me to wait?” the driver asks, and I hesitate just one more second.
Then I shake my head. Marley’s inside. I’ve got no reason to leave. I struggle out onto the sidewalk and pause as the car disappears into the distance.
Every step I take, I get more nervous, the pain in my leg growing by the second, my heart hammering in my chest.
Soon only the door stands between us. I lean on my crutches, staring at it.
A ceramic duck statue is perched on top of the welcome sign. A sign on a sign. It spurs me on.
I reach out slowly, and after a long moment my finger presses the doorbell. One sharp peal sounds and I quickly pull my hand away.
I hold my breath, listening, until I hear the sound of footsteps coming closer. A wave of dizziness passes over me, but I fight through it. The lock slowly turns; then the handle twists and the door opens.
I’m so expecting to see her that it’s hard for me to fully process the stocky, middle-aged guy with a thick beard standing in front of me.
His curiosity turns to a frown when he looks at me.
“Yes?”
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “Um, is Marley home?”
He sizes me up. “How do you know my daughter?”
Just like that my doubt evaporates and relief plunges through me. I knew it.
“Sir, I’m—” I start to say, stopping short when a young girl I’ve never seen before peeks around her dad’s shoulder, her eyes wide as she stares at me.
She can’t be more than ten.
“Marley,” the man says to her, nodding to me. “Do you know this guy?”
Her small, round eyes meet mine, and her fear kicks me in the teeth. She’s just some poor kid. But how can this be? I thought all the signs pointed to this Marley. This house.
The girl shakes her head, but I’m already stumbling back, trying to get the hell out of here, seeing the cracks in the article that I ignored in my excitement.
Lara, not Laura. Her sister, but not a single mention of twins. Hit at night instead of the morning. I just thought maybe my coma brain had gotten some of the details wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to get out. “Wrong house.”
I turn as quickly as I can, desperately struggling to get down the front steps, my vision tunneling. As if this isn’t already bad enough, one of my crutches slips halfway down. I lose my footing and hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me as my body sprawls across the front yard.
Gasping, I fight to catch my breath as the dad trots down the steps after me.
“Why are you here?” he calls out, voice angry.
I grab my crutches. I have to get back on my feet, but my entire body is screaming. “I got the wrong house. I’m sorry.” I grunt and hoist myself up.
I hear him call over his shoulder to his daughter a firm “Get inside, Marley.” Just hearing her name is enough to practically knock me over again, but I hobble forward.
I make it to a streetlight by the road, collapsing against it. Looking back, I see the dad watching me from the porch, glaring, so I keep fighting, stumbling to the curb at the end of the block.
I slide onto it, under the glow of the streetlight, my vision blurring.
It wasn’t her. If she’s out there, this was my shot. None of the others made any sense.
Which means she’s not here.
And she never was.