The Bodyguard (32)

“Those execs have a big advantage over you, though,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Nobody cares about them except me and the bad guys.”

Then Jack narrowed his eyes and studied me. “Do you care about them?”

“I mean, sort of,” I said.

“That sounds like a no.”

“I care about doing my job right.”

“But you don’t care about the people you’re protecting.”

I shouldn’t be saying any of this. Where was my head? “Not in the traditional sense, no.”

Jack nodded and thought about it.

Did he want me to care about him? What a strange expectation. “Caring about people actually makes it harder to do a good job,” I said then, in my own defense.

“I get it,” Jack said.

Anyway, he wasn’t wrong about himself. He was good at this. He knew exactly how to move through a space without being spotted. We brought him in through a delivery entrance and up the service elevator. The hallway was deserted, and Doghouse and I saw him make it to the door and disappear through it without a hitch.

That was one huge hurdle cleared. The doctors and nurses on his mom’s team had signed nondisclosure agreements. Now all Jack had to do was stay there.

But he didn’t stay there.

Just before lunch, after I’d stood at the end of the hallway long enough to know there were 207 floor tiles from edge to edge, I saw Jack walk out of the room and start meandering off down the hallway, like he was headed to the nurses’ station.

“Hey!” I shout-whispered. “What are you doing?”

But Jack didn’t turn.

What was he thinking? Hadn’t we just talked about this? He couldn’t just wander loose.

I trotted after him. “Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Hey! We talked about this! You’re not supposed to leave the—”

Right then, I caught up, and I grabbed his forearm, and he turned to look at me …

And it wasn’t Jack.

It was his brother. Hank.

“Oh!” I said, the second I saw his face—dropping his arm and stepping back.

Shit.

Now that I saw him, Hank was clearly not Jack. Hank was an inch or so shorter. And a little bit broader. And his hair was a shade or two darker. His sideburns were shorter. And none of those details should have escaped me.

If I’m honest, the smell of the hospital, and the lighting, too, reminded me of when my own mother was sick—which wasn’t all that long ago—and it had me slightly off my game.

Hank Stapleton was staring at me. “Did you just tell me I can’t leave the room?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were Jack.”

Hank tilted his head. “Can Jack not leave the room?”

What to say? “He wasn’t planning on it,” I said. “No.”

Hank tilted his head. “And who are you?”

“I’m Hannah,” I said, hoping we could leave it at that.

Apparently not. He shook his head and frowned, like Is that supposed to mean something?

And then I did what I had to do. I said, “I’m Jack’s girlfriend.” But I swear it felt like the biggest, fakest, most unconvincing lie in the world.

But here’s the surprise miracle: He bought it.

“Oh, sure,” Hank said, looking me over, remembering. “The one who’s afraid of cows.”

How did he know that? Did my scream give it away?

He went on. “Did you come to see my mom?”

My head started nodding as my stomach turned cold. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t prepared to meet the family. I wasn’t even wearing my girlfriend clothes. But there wasn’t another answer. “Yes.”

“She just woke up,” Hank said. “I’m going for ice chips.”

“I’ll get them,” I offered, wanting to get him back into the room. He wasn’t Jack, but he was close enough to make trouble.

Plus, I needed a minute to regroup.

“You go on back,” I said. “I brought flowers, but I forgot them in the car. So—ice chips. Next best thing.”

Flimsy. But he shrugged and said, “Okay.”

On the way to the nurses’ station, I explained it all to Doghouse’s earpiece. “I’m going in,” I said. Then, ice chips in hand, I started toward Connie Stapleton’s room—but I paused when I caught my reflection in the chrome elevator doors.

Did I look like a girlfriend? Anybody’s, even?

It was hopeless, but I tried zhuzh-ing myself a little bit, anyway. I took off my jacket and hid it behind a potted plant. I rolled my sleeves and unbuttoned the top button of my blouse. I unwrapped my hair from its bun and shook it out to fluff it. I popped my collar for a second before deciding I was too nervous to pull that off.

I’d just have to make it work.

I mentally reviewed what I knew about Jack’s parents from the file. Dad: William Gentry Stapleton, a veterinarian, now retired. Went by Doc. Widely beloved by all who knew him. Once rescued a newborn calf from a flooded oxbow lake. Married to Connie Jane Stapleton, retired school principal, for over thirty years. High school sweethearts. They’d spent five years in the Peace Corps, rescued homeless horses, belonged to a recreational swing-dancing club, and were, by all accounts, good people.