Darkness & Shadows (15 page)

About Tristan Reynolds, who had become as much a mystery as the events that had led her to him. She’d saved his life and was now about to lose hers.
So unfair
, he thought.
So damned unfair
. He shouldn’t even be alive right now.

Then another brand of guilt slipped between the folds of his consciousness and into the open: guilt over treating Tristan so
poorly. He’d apologized, but she wouldn’t hear it—she wouldn’t, because it was way too little and far too late. A half-baked, half-assed gesture with a banality rating of ten.

Why didn’t you just tell her to have a nice day, jackass? It would have been about as meaningless
.

He should have tried harder—no, he should have acted like a feeling human. She had a scar running across her face, for heaven’s sake, and had obviously been through rough times. He should have been more sensitive. Instead of showing compassion, he simply wrote her off and pushed her aside. Judged her instead of trying to understand her.

Were you too stupid, too blind, or too damned selfish?

Maybe all three.

He moved down to the next unfixable problem on the list, potentially the biggest—one he knew could very soon bite him in the ass.

Her brother? What in God’s name was I thinking?

At first, amid all the confusion and chaos, his lie seemed defensible, but now with the dust settling, it felt like utter stupidity. He was incredulous that nobody had questioned him further, and luckily no relatives had surfaced yet—but if any did, how would he explain himself?

He thought about calling Dr. Ready. She’d know if Tristan had family or friends, and if so, their whereabouts.

Bad idea.
Ridiculous
idea. He wasn’t ready to discuss the attack or have her ask probing questions about his feelings. He had no idea how he felt. Too many damned thoughts rolling around in his head, too much pressure building. Too much everything. He decided instead to phone the doctor when he figured she would be with a patient, leaving only a vague message about what had happened, that Tristan had been taken to the hospital, and that he needed to cancel his next few appointments. “I just need some time,” he told her voicemail.

Patrick folded his body over, chest to knees, hands locked behind his head. He couldn’t do this. He felt so…

Helpless.

The word blazed through his mind like dry lightning.

He sat straight up, this time saying it out loud.

“Helpless.”

But saying it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to write it, hundreds—maybe thousands—of times. He craved the word like he’d never craved one before, and he craved a place to scribble it as well.

Sloppily.

Repetitively.

Obsessively.

Good Lord, how can you be so goddamned selfish?

He straightened his back as if the act could unbend his twisted hunger, take away the menacing urge that refused to leave him alone.

This isn’t about you. You wouldn’t even be breathing right now if it weren’t for that life hanging in limbo in the other room.

Guilt settled the score, pushing his compulsion into remission.

He kept waiting.

At the end of her shift, Regina came out to update him. “Nothing has changed so far,” she said. As Patrick frowned, she added, “But that’s actually not bad news. Her condition hasn’t worsened, either. She’s critical but stable.” Then she smiled. “And I’ve got better news.”

He perked.

“Doctor said you can see her now.”

They moved down a vacant hallway, the walls feeling oddly close, the ceilings oddly low. “You can visit every hour for twenty minutes, on the hour,” she said as they turned a corner. “If you want to stay in the ICU waiting room during the off times, you can. No cell phones permitted inside. No live plants or cut flowers, either.”

Going from the waiting room to the ICU was like dropping into another world—one with beeping monitors, flittering lights, and an assaultive, medicinal smell that hung heavy on the air. The contrast caught Patrick off guard, but he fought the accompanying feelings away, trying to stay focused and prepare himself for what lay ahead.

“This is Candy,” Regina said when they reached the nurses’ station. “She runs the show. Whatever she says goes. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to get home.”

“Regina, thank you,” he said.

She waved it off with a hand, flashing one of those expressions that people who selflessly do good often give, then went on her way.

“Let’s get you over to see your sister,” Candy said with a smile.

Patrick straightened his posture, trying to pull himself together, and then followed.

They entered the room. A mass of tubes curled their way over Tristan’s body like wandering tree roots, with even more taped to her mouth, nose, and arms. A ventilator was doing her breathing, each hiss forcing air into her lungs: mechanical support for a body too weak and damaged to do it alone. In the background, a heart monitor kept an unsettling, punchy rhythm, staccato beeps announcing with precision and clarity that a life was hanging by a thread—one that could break any minute.

Patrick stopped a few feet from the bed and drew in a deep, weary breath, settling his gaze on her, trying to keep it together.

You can do this. What she went through for you is much worse.

He stepped to the side of the bed.

Standing over her now, he could see with staggering certainty just how severe her injuries were, head and face badly swollen, wrapped in bandages—ones that could barely keep the damage in check, let alone the blood from seeping out. Her eyes were taped shut and a bolt protruded from the top of her head, wrapped in dressing, tubes snaking out on each side. Candy had explained that the bolt was inserted to monitor the brain swelling. Patrick took it all in, sadly shaking his head, the weight of this moment heavy in his chest. In her current state she looked so broken, like a delicate teacup shattered to pieces, then haphazardly taped together again, everything oddly out of kilter, in utter disharmony. Destroyed, much like the figurine she had smashed in Dr. Ready’s office.

So fragile. Our lives are so ridiculously fragile. We move about in this world feeling as though we’re invincible, hard as nails, not knowing just how vulnerable we really are. Like walking, breathing eggshells. Then we cross the wrong person’s path, and in a blink of the eye reality shows us with horrifying detail just how delicate we are, how easily we can be broken open.

If not for her courageousness, he would be the one lying here, barely hanging onto life. Then came a sobering realization: there would have been nobody to stand by his bedside, nobody to worry about him. Oddly enough, that truth, while cold and harsh, felt like a connection with Tristan.

He smiled.

Not in his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined he’d end up feeling anything for this woman, and yet he did, and in that moment, Patrick knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He would be here for as long as she needed him. He didn’t care if he had to sit in this room for a month—longer, even. He would see this through no matter what. If she didn’t make it, he would be here. And if by some miracle she woke up, he would be here for that as well. Live or die, she would do neither alone.

He placed a gentle hand on top of hers, tilting his head to see her better.

Who are you?

He studied the scar running across her face, for the first time getting a good look at it.

Who did this to you? A jealous ex-boyfriend? An abusive parent? Some heartless stranger looking for a place to vent his twisted anger?

“I’m sorry.”

The words came from behind. He spun around to find Candy standing there.

“I’m afraid your time is up,” she said softly. “You’ll have to go now.”

He nodded, then turned toward Tristan again, leaning over to whisper his final words—ones he’d been wanting so desperately to tell her since this all began.

“Thank you.”

He hoped that somehow, by some miracle, she heard him.

C
hapter
T
wenty
-F
ive

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

With his visiting time up, he walked down the cold, bland hallway, feeling his body succumbing to exhaustion. There was no denying that he needed to get home, get some rest, and reassure Bullet. Poor guy was waiting for him, probably wondering where his best friend had gone, whether he’d abandoned him, and most importantly, where the food was.

As Patrick neared the end of the hallway, he was startled by a sudden movement at the corner ahead. He stopped and stared, wondering if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. It was entirely possible that someone had been walking ahead of him and turned into the next hallway. It was also entirely possible they weren’t even there, that he’d just glimpsed a reflection or an odd shadow.

But he could have sworn he saw someone stepping around the corner—someone moving backward, not forward.

He shook his head, knowing this was no time to trust his mind or his senses—both were shot. He turned the corner wearily. No boogeyman waited for him. A good night’s rest—that’s what he needed.

Patrick spent the next day sitting for short stretches at Tristan’s bedside and long stretches in the ICU waiting room. He spent that time surfing the Internet and making calls on the Clark case: so far, no new developments—at least nothing Pike was divulging. When he had exhausted the possibilities of the Internet, he sat and thought about why Tristan was so alone in the world. But that was like looking in a mirror.

All day long, all his waiting, and her condition still hadn’t changed.

He returned that night to Bullet, feeling depressed.

“She might not make it, buddy,” he told the dog.

The next morning as he drove from the beach cottage, down the interstate, and onto the Washington Avenue exit, he glanced at the passenger seat and saw it was empty. It wasn’t supposed to be. His computer was supposed to be there—the computer he’d apparently left behind.

He sighed.

As he parked his car at the hospital, his gaze traveled from the empty passenger seat to the empty notebook lying on the floorboard below. He’d bought it to replace the one stolen at the beach, and now the virgin pages were practically calling out his name.