I would give anything to keep Sara with me, but I can’t—not without destroying her and whatever chance we have at a future together.
In any case, it might be for the best that she’s nowhere near me when I do what it takes to ensure that future.
I will be back for her, but first, I must deal with Novak and Esguerra.
10
Sara
The drive to the hospital takes nearly two hours—we hit traffic on the way—and my nerves are stretched thin by the time the driver drops me off by the hospital entrance and disappears. He didn’t reply to any of my questions, so I have no idea who he is or what his relationship is to Peter and his team. And maybe it’s for the best. I have no doubt I’ll be questioned as soon as the FBI learn I’m here.
My hope is to see Mom and Dad before that happens.
Fighting to contain my anxiety, I hurry through the familiar hallways. I need no signs to point me to the ICU. This hospital is where I did my residency and where I worked all those years; it’s more home to me than the house I lived in.
“Lorna Weisman?” I ask, rushing up to the ICU check-in desk, and then I wait, silently screaming with impatience as a middle-aged receptionist with a garish red perm leisurely looks up the name.
I see the exact moment she finds whatever special notes the FBI left in the system. Her eyes fly up to my face, wide and startled behind her green-rimmed glasses, and she stutters out, “J-Just a moment.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “Where is she?” I lean in, imitating Peter’s scariest tone. “Tell me now.”
“Sh-she’s in surgery.” The woman shrinks back as much as her sizable frame allows. Her ring-laden fingers scramble for the phone on the table. “They t-took her in an hour ago.”
“Again?”
Frantically bobbing her head, she finds the emergency button on the phone. “There was more internal bleeding and—”
I don’t stay to hear the details. In a few minutes, security—and possibly the FBI—will be here, and I have to find Dad before that. The last Peter heard, Dad still hadn’t gone home, and given what I just learned, I have no doubt he’s here, waiting to see if Mom pulls through.
There is a big waiting room by the ICU, but I don’t see him there. It’s possible he went down to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat, or he might be in the bathroom. Either way, I don’t have time to hang around, so I run to one of the smaller waiting rooms that are off to the side. Some families prefer those for greater privacy, so there’s a small chance that Dad might—
“Sara?”
I pivot to the right, my heartbeat jumping at the familiar voice.
It’s my friend Marsha. She’s dressed in her nurse’s scrubs and staring at me like I just jumped out from under her bed. Behind her is another shocked—and familiar—face: Isaac Levinson, one of my dad’s closest friends. He and his wife, Agnes, are sitting in the corner of the small waiting room I poked my head into, and next to them is—
“Dad!” I rush over, nearly tripping over a chair as tears blur my vision and choke off my breath.
“Sara!” Dad’s arms fold around me, so much thinner and weaker than I remember, and I realize he’s crying too, his frail frame shaking with sobs. Pulling away, he stares at me in disbelief mixed with dawning joy, his mouth trembling as he grips my hands. “You’re here. You’re really here.”
“I’m here, Dad.” I squeeze his shaking hands and step back, wiping my tears as I steady my voice. “I’m here now. Tell me… How’s Mom?”
His face crumples. “She’s still hemorrhaging. They thought they had it under control, but they must’ve missed something or the stitches tore after they sewed her up. Her blood pressure dropped again, so they’re going back in and—”
“Dr. Cobakis.”
My muscles lock up as I turn to face the unfamiliar male voice.
It’s a security guard, accompanied by a baby-faced policeman. Their expressions are wary but determined, and the policeman’s right hand is hovering over his gun, as though he expects me to get into a shootout with him.
“Dr. Cobakis, you need to come with us,” the security guard says, and I realize his blond goatee looks vaguely familiar. I must’ve seen him around the hospital. Not that it matters. Judging by the resolute look on his freckled face, I can expect no help or sympathy from him—or from the young policeman, who’s staring at me like I’m wearing a suicide vest instead of jeans and a sweater.
“Now wait a minute—” my dad begins indignantly.
“He’s not here,” I interrupt, raising my hands above my head to show my lack of weapons. I understand where their wariness is coming from, and I intend to do what I can to diffuse it. “I’m all alone, I promise.”