Everything You Are(74)

“Asshole kids creating trouble,” a man says. He’s skeletal thin, twitchy, his right front incisor missing. “Should never have rented them a room.”

The girl surprises Allie with a swift response. “You’re right, Finn, you shouldn’t have.”

“And you’d better make your pretty ass scarce before the cops come out here and get interested in you,” he retorts with venom.

Phee walks away from both of them, starts climbing the stairs.

The cop swivels toward her, one hand automatically resting on his service weapon.

“Ma’am, go back to the parking lot.”

“I’m family. Of the girl, Allie. Please.”

His voice softens, but he moves to block the top of the stairs. “You’ll help her best right now by letting the medical team work. Please go back down.”

“But can you tell me anything? Anything at all. Please.” She presses her palms together like a prayer.

“They’re alive, that’s all I know and all I can tell you. Now, please.”

“What hospital will they take her to? At least tell me that.”

The cop’s face registers sympathy. He hesitates a moment. “I’ll ask if you wait right here.”

“Promise. Not budging.” She grips the railing with both hands to signal her intent, and he turns and walks to the open door. She can’t hear what’s said, no matter how she strains her ears, and it seems an eternity before he returns.

“Swedish. Ballard Campus.”

“Bless you.” Phee retreats but doesn’t rejoin the others. The girl, she sees, has vanished, but her place has been taken by a middle-aged woman who is filming the open doorway and the cop outside it with her phone.

Phee calls Braden back. “Alive,” she says.

“What happened? What did they . . .” She hears the words stick in his throat, knows he’s envisioning blood and ropes, guns and pills, the same images that are filling her own brain with graphic intensity.

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Is she . . . will she be okay?”

“They’ll be taking her to Swedish. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll cancel the Uber. Come get me.”

“On my way. She’s in good hands, Braden.”



He’s waiting in the driveway, shaking so badly he can’t get the door open. Phee leans over and opens it from the inside. As soon as he’s in, she throws her arms around him, and he grabs on to her as if she’s a life preserver, his cheek pressed against her hair. He begins to weep, and Phee feels her own grief and guilt and fear cresting along with his.

He needs her, though, and she forces herself to breathe. A long inhale, a controlled exhale. Slow and easy. Gradually, his trembling eases, his breathing slows and steadies to match hers.

“Thank you,” he sighs, releasing her, blotting at his eyes.

Phee blinks hard to clear her vision, then puts the car in reverse. They are silent all the way to the hospital.

“What if . . . ,” he begins as she pulls into the parking lot.

“Shhh,” she answers. “She’ll be here. Don’t even think it.”

She reaches for his hand, and his fingers clamp around hers so hard it hurts.

ER reception is small and crowded. Two women sit in chairs side by side. A man talks to the receptionist, a bloody towel wrapped around his arm. A set of official-looking double doors are posted with a sign: Staff Only. Another door is marked Family Room.

When the locked doors open and a woman in scrubs helps the guy with the bleeding arm into a wheelchair and then back into the ER, Phee holds Braden back, feeling his muscles tense as if he’s going to make a break for it.

“How can I help you?” the woman behind the desk finally asks, her eyes weary but kind.

“We’re looking for our daughter,” Phee says, low and steady. “We understand an ambulance may have brought her in.”

“Name?”

“Allie Healey.”

The woman frowns, taps a few keys.

Braden fidgets while the woman consults her computer. Phee squeezes his hand, her own heart accelerating in an agony of impatience.

“Oh, here we are. You can wait in the family room. I’ll buzz you in.”

“How is she?” Braden asks. “Can you tell me anything?”

“Please wait in the family room. A doctor will be in to talk to you shortly.”

A buzzer sounds, and Phee opens the door and pulls Braden through behind her. The family room is mercifully empty, with the exception of a young woman trying to soothe a crying baby. There are comfortable chairs, magazines, coffee, and Styrofoam cups.

“God, Phee. I can’t.”

“She’s here, they’re taking care of her,” Phee says. “Try to believe in the best.”

If only she could follow her own advice.

Braden paces, staring at the door on the other side of the room, as if willing it to open. Phee sits in a chair, focuses on her hands in her lap, her feet on the floor.

Was the receptionist trying to keep something to herself or just being professional? If Allie was okay, maybe she’d have said something. Maybe waiting in the family room like this means the worst has happened.

Braden comes to sit beside her. He’s barely holding it together, she can tell.