But that Lindsay doesn’t exist.
They’re interacting with a fictional character they’ve created in their well-meaning minds.
“Your parents will be here in two hours. Six a.m. sharp, we told your father. He’s been so worried,” Dr. Brown Hair says, his eyes showing he’s troubled by me.
“Your mother, too. We couldn’t get her to leave yesterday,” Dr. Short Woman says with a snappy tone. “She’s a stubborn one.” She looks to me for a reaction.
I just stare ahead, then close my eyes.
And wait for them to leave.
But no.
They’re not going anywhere.
Dr. Short Woman grabs the pitcher of water, pours some into a cup, and pops a straw in. “Here,” she says, tapping my good hand. I raise it and grasp the cup, slowly moving it to my mouth. Twice I miss.
Third time, bullseye.
The water is a relief. I swish it around, moistening everything, removing some of my suffering. As I swallow, they watch me. They expect me to react, to emote, to speak.
I just swallow and breathe.
I rest my head against the mattress and put the half-full cup on the stand.
“Higgs, take a look,” Dr. Short Woman says to Dr. Brown Hair, who I guess is actually Dr. Higgs. She’s pointing to the end of the bed. “She removed her catheter.”
He frowns. “Maybe it fell out?”
“A Foley catheter with a water-filled balloon? No.”
They look at me with a new level of interest.
Dr. Higgs smiles and shrugs. “I guess we can consider her ambulatory now. No more catheter. Lindsay can use the bathroom on her own.”
“Lindsay?” Dr. Short Woman says in a worried voice. “Can you speak?”
I nod.
“Would you please speak?”
I shake my head and sigh.
Nothing they do for the next five minutes can pull me out of my shell. If I wait them out, they’ll leave, and then I can just be alone with my pain.
Someone adjusts an IV. Dr. Short Woman presses a piece of plastic into my good hand. “This is for pain medicine. Push it whenever you need a dose. You can only get one dose per hour, though. It will help you sleep.”
I push the button.
And wait.
By the time they leave the room, my pain is hovering in the corner, watching me like a spirit that doesn’t know it’s dead.
Drew
“I mean it, Harry. I’m not leaving until I can see her.” I’m squared off against him, face to face, right outside Lindsay’s hospital room. After a torturous night in my own hospital bed, and debriefings and interrogations from more law enforcement agencies than members of a baseball team, I’m here.
Battered, bruised, and checked out of the hospital against medical advice.
But here.
“Drew,” he says, his voice compassionate. “Monica is on her way. Lindsay just woke up a few hours ago. We have her under careful guard. Let us see her first.”
“Of course. But I need to see her after you.”
“That might not be good for her mental health. The trauma...”
“You think I don’t know about the trauma? I witnessed most of it.”
He flinches. “So did half of America, on national television. That live feed complicates everything.”
“You mean having your naked daughter on television cutting off her attacker’s cock may hurt you in the polls.”
“You think I’m that cold?”
Before I can answer him, Monica sweeps down the hall, her face lighting up as she sees me.
I experience déjà vu. Last time she looked at me like that was four years ago.
“Drew!” she gasps, pulling me in for a fake hug, two fake kisses on my cheeks. She’s a cloud of perfume in female human form.
Those eyes express genuine emotion. “Thank you for what you did, Drew. You’re the one who cracked this all wide open.” Her side-eye glare aimed at Harry leaves nothing to interpret. She’s pissed at him. “Unlike some people,” she elaborates, “you weren’t snowed.”
Harry just clenches his jaw and sighs.
“Then again,” she adds, leaning in, “we could have done without the whole world seeing Lindsay naked like that. The live feed was brilliant, though.”
I give Harry a look.
“We haven’t been briefed yet on all the specifics. But Nolan Corning is in custody, has already resigned from the Senate, and an ad hoc investigation committee is underway. We know now that he reached out to Blaine, who pulled John and Stellan into the mix. Their goal was to paint my daughter as a whore, to discredit me, to derail my future in politics. Corning had one hell of a web he wove to make that happen.” Harry gives me a cold look I can’t read. “Unfortunately, the perpetrators are all dead. We have you to thank for that.”
“Only two of them. Lindsay killed Stellan all on her own.”
Harry grimaces. “Right.” He looks sick. “I’ve seen the video. Your drop kick helped.”
No reason to respond, so I don’t.
Monica nudges Harry, then looks around to see if anyone’s watching. “Did you thank Drew publicly?”
“Yes.”
“Now we have ample proof that Lindsay was drugged. Jane found the video Blaine Maisri made of that horrible night four years ago. The scheming little asshole had it as backup, just in case someone turned on him.”
A vision of Maisri on top of Lindsay as he attacked her in my bedroom makes my eyes move rapidly, my heart speeding up.
“Drew?” Monica’s manicured hand covers mine, the bite of her French-tipped fingernails cutting through memory. “Perhaps you need more time to rest.” She gives the door to Lindsay’s room a nervous glance.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“No one is fine, Drew,” Harry declares, rubbing his palm across his chin. He hasn’t shaved, and his tie is loose. Monica’s the picture of perfection, but Harry’s unraveled a little. “No one.”
“Duly noted,” I say, relenting. “But I’m better than Lindsay. That damn gunshot. If John had better aim -- ”
“But he didn’t,” Monica says firmly. “He didn’t, and you saved her. We have a mess to wade through, but it’s a mess with a daughter who is alive.”