Chapter 2 - THE QUESTION HE HAD NO RIGHT TO ASK
Dante Moretti looked smaller in a hospital bed.
Not harmless. Never harmless. Even with an IV in his arm, oxygen beneath his nose, and a bandage wrapped around his chest, he possessed the kind of stillness that made other people nervous. Two armed men stood outside his room. Another watched the elevator.
I entered alone.
His dark eyes found me immediately.
“Claire.”
I checked his monitor without looking at him. “Your blood pressure is holding. The surgeons repaired the damage to your lung, but you lost a dangerous amount of blood. You need rest.”
“I thought you were dead.”
My fingers stopped over the chart.
“That’s an interesting thing to say to the woman you abandoned.”
Pain moved across his face. Whether from the wounds or my words, I couldn't tell.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve considerably more.”
He swallowed. “I looked for you.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“You left a note telling me not to look for you. You disappeared. You changed your number, emptied your apartment, and vanished so thoroughly that even the people who worked for you pretended they had never heard your name.”
“I had reasons.”
“Then you should have had the courage to tell me one.”
He turned his face toward the window. Beyond the glass, Seattle glittered beneath the cold October rain.
“Someone was using you to get to me,” he said.
I almost laughed. “So you decided the best way to protect me was to destroy my life without explanation?”
“They knew about us.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't tell you.”
“You could have told me you were in danger. You could have given me the choice to stay or leave. You could have treated me like an adult.”
He closed his eyes.
For one second, I saw the man I had loved, the one who used to burn pancakes and sing terrible songs while washing dishes. Then the memory disappeared beneath the stranger who had returned six years too late.
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
“I didn't come back. I was brought here.”
“Why were you shot?”
His gaze shifted toward the door.
“That isn't something you should involve yourself in.”
I set the chart down.
“You don't get to tell me what I should involve myself in. I'm your physician. Until another doctor assumes responsibility, I'm responsible for your care. That's the only reason I'm in this room.”
He studied me for a long moment.
“Are you married?”
The question struck so unexpectedly that I stared at him.
“That's none of your business.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Children?”
My stomach tightened.
Six years ago, I had imagined telling him about the baby in a hundred different ways. I had pictured his stunned smile, his hands resting carefully over my stomach, his laughter when the first kick startled him.
I had also imagined the opposite: his silence, his excuses, his departure.
Now he was looking at me as though the answer might decide whether he could breathe.
“Why?” I asked.
His jaw tightened. “I need to know if you built a life with someone else.”
“You lost the right to ask that question when you walked away.”
Before he could respond, a man in a charcoal suit entered without knocking.
“Mr. Moretti, we need to leave.”
Dante's expression changed instantly. The vulnerability vanished. His eyes became cold.
“Get out, Vincent.”
Vincent Hale, Dante's longtime security chief, ignored him and glanced at me.
“Doctor, this conversation is over.”
I stepped between them and the bed. “This is a medical unit. You don't give orders to my staff or interfere with my patient care.”
Vincent's mouth twitched.
“Still brave, Claire.”
The familiarity in his voice unsettled me.
“You remember me?”
“I remember everything that matters.”
Dante struggled to sit up.
“Vincent. Out.”
This time, the man obeyed, but not before giving me a look that felt like a warning.
I waited until the door closed.
“Who is he?”
“My security chief.”
“He knows my name.”
“He knows a lot of things.”
“Did he know why you left?”
Dante looked away.
That was an answer.
I checked his dressing and adjusted his oxygen. I was nearly finished when he reached for my wrist.
His grip was weak, but the urgency in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Claire, listen to me. If anyone asks whether you treated me tonight, tell them you didn't recognize me.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever arranged this shooting may have known you were on duty.”
A chill traveled through me.
“That's ridiculous.”
“Someone knew my route. They knew my security detail. They knew exactly where to hit me.”
“And you think they knew I would be working?”
“I think you need to be careful.”
I pulled my hand free.
“You don't get to return to my life, bleed on my operating table, and start issuing mysterious warnings.”
“I'm trying to keep you safe.”
“You should have tried six years ago.”
I left before he could answer.
In the corridor, I called Kate.
“Can you check on Mia again?”
“Of course. What's wrong?”
“Nothing I can explain right now.”
“Claire, you're scaring me.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
I ended the call and leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.
Then I noticed the security monitor outside the nurses' station.
A man stood near the pediatric elevators.
Black coat. Dark hair. One hand tucked into his pocket.
He was watching the corridor leading to my daughter's floor.
I moved closer to the screen.
The man looked up directly into the camera.
Then he smiled.
My phone rang.
The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.
I answered without speaking.
A distorted voice said, “Doctor Callahan, we know about the little girl.”
The line went dead.
May you like
For a moment, the hospital continued around me as though nothing had happened.
Then I ran.
