It would be good if she left. I’m a dangerous man. She has no reason to stick around and spend time with me. I’m not good company.
The nurse comes in first, taking my vitals as the doctor enters a few minutes later.
Sadie stands in the hallway, watching, giving us space and privacy.
“Do you know your name?” the doctor asks.
“I don’t,” I lie. It’s easier. The police will be investigating the shooting. The hospital is required to report any gunshot injuries, and we’re not at Steele Concierge Medical, which means these doctors aren’t bought or paid for by the bratva.
They are forced to report the crime to the police.
“How about what year is it?”
I relay the year and the doctor nods, pleased that I have that correct. She asks the same about the president, and I seem to get those questions correct. Maybe I should have played it off as more confused, but I don’t want them running a million medical tests on me.
I want to go home.
Although where the hell is home?
I can’t return to the compound with Mikhail running the shots. For all I know, he ordered my execution.
Did Luka shoot Anton or me? Maybe Anton’s girlfriend Savannah had a gun hidden on her, and she pulled the trigger? She did work for the feds.
Everyone is a suspect.
The doctor jots down a couple of notes and informs me that no lasting trauma is indicated on the tests they’ve already run, but they will have a neurologist examine me later this afternoon. She hurries out of the room to look in on another patient.
“Enjoying the hallway?” I quip, glancing at Sadie as she pretends to pick lint off her shirt.
“I didn’t want to intrude,” Sadie says, sneaking back into my room.
“Can I ask you something?” While I know my name, I don’t recall what happened. She nods, letting me continue. “Was there anyone else?”
“What do you mean?” Sadie asks, staring at me blankly. The girl hasn’t the slightest clue what I’m asking about. Of course, she wouldn’t, because she doesn’t know what went down in the forest.
Neither do I.
“When you found me. Was I alone?”
Sadie saunters farther into my hospital room. Her toes drag over the floor for a beat. There’s something that she’s hiding, but I don’t know anything about her to figure out what that might be.
Did the Italians send her?
No. If they did, I’d be dead. She’d have suffocated me when I was asleep.
She slumps into the chair beside my bed. “Are you asking if I saw the shooter? Because I didn’t.” Her answer comes out a little too quickly and forced. Almost like she’s rehearsed it in her head a dozen times.
Maybe she doesn’t want to admit to witnessing what happened. She’s smart if she plays that route and pretends not to have seen anything.
“I meant when you found me, was I alone?”
“Just you and the dirt,” Sadie says. She quirks a wry grin before glancing down at her lap.
Why is she still here? If I ask her and I’m too brash, she might leave. And that’s the last thing I want.
“Thanks for saving my life, bringing me here,” I say, and gesture toward the room.
I hate hospitals. Not that I know anyone that likes them, but I despise them. Men die in places like this after bloodthirsty battles. I want to go home but can’t return to the compound.