Never had I been one to show weakness. Never had I depended upon the aid of others.
No. I was Donovan Sherman.
Fuck the world.
I’d heard it said that karma was a bitch.
Lying in the hospital bed in Madison, Wisconsin, I knew that karma was more. She was bigger. She was stronger. She was ruthless. Karma was what I’d wanted to be until I laid eyes upon what I’d missed for forty-one years—who, I should say.
It would have been one thing to be lying here incapacitated if all that I was missing was my work and quest for more, bigger, and better. Even in my weakened state, I knew my company was secure. I knew I had many of the best men and women working under the Sherman and Madison umbrella. Additionally, I had reassurance that the one person I’d legally given reins to my kingdom, the only person I’d trusted until now, had taken control.
What I didn’t have was what I desired most in my life. What I craved with a hunger unmatched by any desire, a need so ravenous that it filled each and every cell within me, couldn’t be bought or stolen. No business deal could secure what I’d jeopardized. A drowning man in the center of Lake Superior, I needed the one person who could keep me afloat—the person who made me complete.
And as karma would have it, she was out of reach.
Everyone was out of reach.
With the age of cell phones, few patients used the wired phones still available in every hospital room. The relics sat like articles in a museum. Fuck that. I’d use it, but I didn’t have access to telephone numbers.
The dark sky and less congested hallways told me that it was night or more accurately, early in the morning. The hospital staff had done a number on me with tests of all kinds. By the time I was left alone with a tray of flavorless food, I was too tired to lift a fork. Liv helped me down a special drink the doctor recommended.
Not that I’d seen a doctor.
Nevertheless, the recommendation was the story I’d been given.
Before my sister left for the night, I asked to borrow her phone.
My mind was too jumbled to recall even one phone number.
The only call I could make was to the woman who currently held the reins of Sherman and Madison, the sister of the woman who tried to kill me. To be fair, Madison’s intentions were still unclear. Perhaps I should have said the sister of the woman who shot me.
Now staring up at the monochrome ceiling, I recalled our brief discussion.
“Liv, how is he?” Lena said when the call connected.
“I’m alive.”
“Van. Thank God.”
My voice wavered. “Tell me you haven’t bankrupted me.”
“The opposite.”
The pounding in my temples was more than I could bear. “Liv doesn’t know who to contact. You do.”
“Van, I should—”
“Fuck, Lena, you should…but I’m not going to be able to talk much longer.”
Her tone filled with concern. “Are you okay? I still can’t believe Madison…” Her sentence ended unfinished, or maybe I simply stopped listening.
“I was fucking shot.” My attempt at force came out more like a plea. “Have you spoken to Julia?”
Yes, over the last hours, I’d discovered the definition ofgone.
Julia had a small bit of the poison in her system. She’d also been injected with a tranquilizer, one used to subdue patients at the facility where Madison stayed. In my opinion, the insanity plea was losing steam with each deliberate action she’d taken in preparation for the encounters. The drug mixture and tranquilizer, wedding gown that matched Julia’s, as well as squatting on our land, all showed premeditation.
“No, Van. I tried. I don’t know Julia’s number. I told you to introduce us.”