Under the Knife(101)

Still no one.

She felt a surge of manic energy as she reached the first floor, elated at the prospect of escape. She flew through a door that deposited her in the parking garage and jogged to her car.

Almost there.

She slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, put the car in gear, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

She was almost to the garage’s gated entrance when it happened.





SEBASTIAN


Sebastian skidded to a halt, panting, at Wu’s parking spot in the garage.

It was empty.

Goddammit!

Wu was gone, and with her, his chances of getting his money (Sammy and Sierra’s money) from Finney. With her signal jammed, he had no way to track her.

Idiot!

Most of him was pissed. But a small part of him felt relief that Wu might yet escape.

Focus, idiot: What the hell do you do now?

His best bet would be to try to pick up the trail at her house. He’d started to walk to his car when a sound near the garage exit caught his attention.





RITA


Dammit.

She stopped the car short of the garage gate and rapped her forehead gently against the steering wheel.

Mrs. Sanchez.

She’d forgotten about Mrs. Sanchez.

Dammit! She pounded her fists on the wheel. She needed to go see her. She’d otherwise never forgive herself. She had no idea when she’d be back. Or even if she’d ever be back.

She backed away from the gate, parked in an empty spot, then logged on to the Turner network with her phone and skimmed through Mrs. Sanchez’s electronic medical chart. The good news: Her blood tests and vital signs looked great. The bad: Her room was on the ninth floor. Rita had to avoid people, and therefore elevators, so it looked like she had some climbing to do. She grimaced. This would take time.

Finney was out of her head (for now, at least), but he might yet be coming after her. Her self-preservation instinct screamed for her to put the car back in gear and get the hell out.

But she couldn’t.

Not without seeing Mrs. Sanchez first.

She killed the engine, retraced her steps to the stairwell and, after opening the electronic lock with her ID badge, began the long climb up. She paced herself, resting at each floor; but, in her weakened state, it was exhausting, and by the time she reached the ninth floor, her chest was heaving with the effort. At least her luck still held: No one, it seemed, was using the stairs tonight.

Rita paused in the room’s open doorway. The overhead light was on, and Mrs. Sanchez was asleep in a bed in the center of the room. A young woman wearing a blue UCLA Bruins hoodie, headphones, and white sweatpants was in a window seat, legs crossed Indian-style in front of her, intent on her phone. She was thin and graceful-looking, with long dark hair and a pretty face, a younger version of the sleeping patient.

The girl laid her phone aside and took off her headphones. She sized Rita up with tired, but shrewd, eyes.

“Yes?” she whispered. “May I help you?” Her eyes shifted to Rita’s hospital ID, which Rita had pinned to her sweater, then contracted to hostile slits.

The girl leapt from the chair, maneuvered a startled Rita by the arm back into the hallway, and planted herself between Rita and the door, which she gently closed behind her.

“Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Wu.” Rita offered her hand. The young woman glanced at it coolly and folded her arms. Rita dropped her hand and felt heat rushing to her cheeks.

“I’m Mrs. Sanchez’s doctor—”

“Yes. I know who you are,” the girl said. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Can I help you?”

“You are—?”

“I’m her daughter. Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to check on her.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to make sure she was okay—”

“Why? So you can, like, experiment on her again?”

“What?”

The girl fished a crumpled copy of the surgery consent form from her hoodie pocket.

“My father showed me this. This says you did some kind of experimental surgery on her?”

“Well … no, not really. It was a standard—”

The girl flapped her arms in the air, exasperated. “Why can’t I get a straight answer from any of you guys? First my mom’s surgery is delayed. Which in a way is good, because at least it gives me time to get here. And then it takes, like, three hours longer then we were told it would. Then some old guy in scrubs, who’s wearing foundation, which I think is totally weird but okay, whatever, comes out and tells us that everything is okay, but that my mom’s going to need to stay in the hospital for a while. My dad said he wanted to talk to you, but the old guy said you were really sick. Why did you operate on my mom if you were sick?”

“That’s not what— Look, things didn’t go as we’d planned, but—”

“Did you think you could take advantage of my parents because they don’t speak good English?”

“What? No! Look—”

“Because that’s just twisted. They trusted you. And now my mom is, like, really sick.” A single tear spilled down her cheek. “My mom is my dad’s life. You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s been like. I finally convinced my dad to go home and get some sleep—” She drew herself up straight. “I don’t want you. I want the other doctor.” Her voice rose, then broke, like a wave on the shore. “I want the old guy. The one with the makeup.”