Cops?
“They know you were attacked by Sydney, but not why. There is an APB out on him, but he’s disappeared somewhere. They’re looking for him.”
You’re okay?
“I’m unhurt, yes,” she said, maintaining control of herself as she read my words. “Why’d you attack him, Kade?”
I lost my control . . .
“Well, Kade Prescott, I love you, and I don’t ever want to feel your blood staining my hands again. You understand me?”
What about the blackmail?
“I don’t care about that right now,” she said quietly.
I looked into her eyes, seeing unimaginable strength, and nodded. Taking my pen in hand again, I wiped the board clear and wrote what was important then. Okay. I love you.
There was a knock at the door, and a doctor came in. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, and had the satisfied demeanor of a man who’d done a good job. I immediately erased what I’d written and looked up at him. “Hi, Mr. Prescott, I’m Doctor Harrington. I was your lead surgeon on your patch job.”
How is it?
“Not as bad as it could have been,” he said after reading the note. “The blade punctured your diaphragm but didn’t get the lungs themselves, so most of the work was in repairing the diaphragm itself and making sure everything stays where it is supposed to be. How’s your stomach feel?”
Numb, can’t really feel anything below my chest.
“Good, we’ve got a nerve block in there right now, but that’s going to be wearing off soon. I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be painful. Want to see?”
I nodded, and the doctor came over to lift my blanket down before undoing my thin cover. The bandage ran for about six inches, from just below my nipple line to about halfway down my stomach. “We had to do what’s called a laparotomy, mostly to open up the chest and stitch the diaphragm shut, then go poking around to make sure that you didn’t have any other major injuries. You nicked a few things in there, but nothing too major. Whatever you were stabbed with, it was small enough to just scrape over your xiphoid process and get the diaphragm itself mostly, without penetrating enough to get to the lungs.”
What’s my recovery time?
“Oh, you’re going to be on the mask for at least a few more days,” Dr. Harrington said. “And you’re going to be in a lot of pain for those few days. The diaphragm is a tough muscle, and we did a good job fixing the hole, but it’s still not going to be pleasant. After that, a few weeks if there are no other complications.”
I suppose this ruins my swimsuit season.
“You could say that. You’re going to have a very impressive scar there when all is said and done.”
The doctor patted me on the shoulder. “By the way, I heard that you are Derek Prescott’s son. Alix here was very insistent that we not tell him about the true nature of your injuries, but if you want, he’s supposed to be making a statement for the live news. Would you like me to turn it on?”
I nodded and Harrington reached over my head and found the television remote. He hit the switch, and the small TV near my bed flashed on. He switched around until he found the local ABC news and handed me the remote. “You mind if I watch here with you? Your father spearheaded a fundraising drive for the hospital last year, and I’d love to see what he’s got to say live.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Alix said, reaching over and taking my hand. The tagline on the screen read Local Community Leader to Make Announcement, Expected to Run for Congress.
“Congress, huh? Well, he’s got my vote,” Harrington said. “Your father’s a good man. And you delayed telling him for this?”
“The police, I’m sure, will inform him soon enough, and they’re coming as soon as the event is over,” Alix said. “By the way, thank you for letting me stay.”
“Your insurance more than covers me bending the rules for family visits,” Harrington said. He pointed at the screen, and held up his finger. “Shhh, it’s starting.”