Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(76)

Becky arrives next, summoned by Mr. Muscles. “Omigod!” she wails when she sees Delilah stretched out on the E.R. bed. “I knew something was off. I feel terrible.”

That pretty much sums me up, too.

Eventually, the cops arrive. I don’t have any idea how much time has passed. Becky takes my place beside Delilah, and I let the cops interrogate me in an office down the hall.

“Tell us everything that happened at the Ferris residence,” they say.

It doesn’t take long, since I didn’t see much.

“I think he wanted her to sign something,” I tell them at the end. “He was trying to give her a pen.”

They can’t give me any information, so I give them all my contact details and go back to Delilah’s side. She hasn’t spoken in a while. All I can do is sit and hold her hand, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. She seems to fade in and out of consciousness. But her pulse monitor gives a steady rhythm, so the nurse says I’m not allowed to panic.

“We’re going to admit her for observation,” a doctor says at some point.

“He stays,” Delilah says, even though I thought she was asleep.

“Okay, honey,” a nurse agrees. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

When I stand up to accompany them, my body is as stiff as a ninety-year-old’s. I groan, and the nurse clucks her tongue. “Are you going to let me look at all those scratches now? There’s one nasty one over your eye.”

Delilah’s eyes pop open suddenly. “Who hurt you?”

“The shrubbery,” I admit. “I kinda dove through the privacy hedge. If there are security cameras, the police are probably laughing their asses off right now.”

She actually gives me a faint smile as the gurney rolls toward the elevators. But I don’t deserve it. Not after leaving her to fend for herself with Brett Ferris.

It’s going to be a long time until I get over this.





Delilah





When I wake up, I’m in a strange room, staring at a strange ceiling. It’s late morning, judging from the bright sunlight coming through the window.

I have no memory at all of how I got here. Yet the creeptastic sensation of having lost time clings to me like a bad dream.

“Holy shit,” I rasp, with a voice that sounds like I haven’t used it for a year. “Not again. Fuck my life.”

“Sweetheart,” says a calm voice. “You’re fine. Everything is okay.”

I turn my head, and the room spins. A woman sits in the chair beside me. She’s knitting a sock with yarn the color of a tropical sea.

Weirdly enough, the sight of her calms me right down. In the first place, knitting ladies are a benevolent force in the universe. And there’s something in her steady gaze that’s familiar to me. “Who…are you?”

“Marie Kelly. My son refused to go and lie down for a few hours until I promised to sit here with you.”

My son. “You’re Silas’s mom?” I blink. She looks too young to be his mother. But now I realize why she’s so familiar. Those kind eyes.

She nods.

Several things fall into place for me. First, I just cursed up a storm in front of Silas’s mom. Second, it’s Silas who deserves all my cursing. That man stood me up, and I’m not over it.

Except… Something tickles the back of my disoriented consciousness. He was here with me. At this hospital, I think? I remember strong arms circling me. No—carrying me. But where? The last thing I remember clearly is…

Brett’s house.

“Omigod.” A shiver runs through me. “He drugged me. That bastard.” My voice is an angry scrape. My memory is like a kaleidoscope. Colorful but fractured. Silas carried me out of Brett’s house. I have no idea how he got there, or why he showed up. But I do remember demanding that he never leave me again.

Hi, subconscious. Nice of you to speak up when I’m drugged.

“How can I help you, honey?” Mrs. Kelly asks. “Would you like a drink of water?”

“F—heck yes,” I say, nearly dropping another f-bomb. I’m so thirsty.

She lifts a small bottle of water out of her bag. “Silas said you would need to open this yourself.” She shows me the top. The seal is unbroken.

Silas left me an unopened bottle of water and instructions for his mom?

My heart melts a little. I’m very eager to hear why Silas disappointed me earlier this week. And maybe I’m insane for having romantic thoughts about him while recovering in a hospital room from a poisoning by my ex-lover.

But none of that matters to my heart. I still trust Silas. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but it’s true.

She hands me the water, and I twist the top. Or I try to. But—good lord—I have no grip strength. I let out a little squeak of dismay as the water bottle remains stubbornly closed. “Could you…” I stop. I haven’t let anyone open a bottle for me in so very long.

Yet Ms. Kelly reaches over and gives it a quick twist. I hear the snap of the plastic seal. And I don’t even have the energy to feel phobic about it. I remove the cap and lift that bottle to my parched lips. I drink so quickly that I end up coughing.

“Oh dear,” Silas’s mom says. She steadies the bottle in my hand while I lean forward like a geriatric patient and try to expel the water droplets from my trachea.