Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(73)

20.

BLAKE

I’m standing in the driveway. The lights of the ambulance are receding; a moment later, they slip around a corner and are swallowed by the hill. My awareness of the circumstances seeps back in slowly. It’s almost like waking up from a nightmare: first, there’s a sharp, shock of consciousness, where physical reality sets in. My feet are bare. The concrete underfoot is wet and cold. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and my skin is so cold that I’ve begun to shiver.

Next, memory floods back. Except when you wake up from a bad dream, you have to remind yourself that everything is okay—that nobody has died, that there are no monsters.

This is exactly the opposite.

Dad is doing cocaine.

No, scratch that.

Dad has been doing cocaine. For years. My father has been killing himself. He’s been begging for my help, and I was too blind to understand how much he needed me.

I’m the worst son ever. Somehow, the cold feels appropriate. It pinches my flesh, robs me of feeling. I could put on a parka and I would never feel warm again.

Footsteps sound behind me. I turn around to see Tina holding a broom. Apparently, she’s cleaned up the glass. She’s watching me with dark, clear eyes.

Twenty minutes ago, we were in bed, closer than close. Twenty minutes ago, I knew I couldn’t go on without her. I know that even more strongly now. I have never needed anyone like I need Tina now.

“Come on, Blake,” she says, gesturing me in. Her voice is gentle. “You need to come in and get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I don’t even know where they’re taking him.”

“You’re holding the card in your hand,” she points out. “Dr. Wong just gave it to you.”

Shit. So he did. I’m not thinking very well right at the moment.

She comes up and takes the card from me. “Here. He’s being taken to…the Reynolds Foundation Emergency Department? Huh. What a coincidence. For some weird reason, I’m going to guess that they’ll take good care of your dad there.”

I look down. It’s drizzling, and I’m wet enough that my jeans are plastered to me. Have to hope that the EMTs didn’t have a camera. I can imagine what it would look like if these photos hit Twitter. For the first time, I can see how I must look: sparse and still too scrawny. The entire world just landed on my shoulders, and I’ve been dicking around.

I take a deep breath. “All right,” I say. “But I have to get a few things ready.”

I don’t just get dressed. I get a bag. I tell Tina that I’m putting a few things together for my dad. I am getting a handful of things, because he will go crazy if he doesn’t have at least a tablet if—no, when—he wakes up. But it’s not just that. I send her off to find a blanket—I tell her it’s for me, while I’m waiting for him to come to—but the truth is I don’t want her to see this.

I ransack his room. I find a bag of white powder in the bathroom, another in his nightstand. I’m in a cold fury now—angry at him, furious with myself—as I toss it in a duffle alongside the stash from the kitchen. I gather up his personal items—computer, tablet, phone, headset, and, on second thought, a razor and a toothbrush—and throw those in a separate messenger bag.

Tina meets me downstairs. She’s packed up my bag as well as her own. She throws these all in the car, and then slides into the driver’s seat.

I can’t look at her yet. Instead, I pull out my phone, slip on a Bluetooth headset, and look out the window. The streetlights slide by between dark houses and dark trees. I glance at my phone, choose a number, and dial.

The phone rings three times before a voice on the other line answers. “Blake?” The voice of Amy Ellis, our head of public relations, is blurred by sleep. But she doesn’t complain about the time. She knows that if I’m calling, it’s urgent. “What’s going on?”

“We need a press release,” I tell her, “and we need it in five minutes, because chances are someone is going to squawk soon.” I don’t know how I manage to sound so calm.

There’s a pause. “Your dad told me things were being rearranged a few hours ago.”

“Fuck what my dad told you,” I say. “This is bigger than that.”

She sighs. “You know I have to have your dad’s approval to release anything. But hit me with the damage.”

“You’re not getting his sign-off on this.” I shut my eyes. “We need a press release saying that Adam Reynolds had a heart attack this morning.”

It’s easier to say it that way. Adam Reynolds, not Dad. As if I can pretend he’s the distant owner of some distant company. As if I’m not bleeding inside.

I hear her intake of breath. “Oh, God. Blake. Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“He’s in stable condition,” I tell her, which I hope is true. “I’m on my way to the hospital where he’s being treated now.”

“Which hospital?”

“Don’t release that.” I shut my eyes. “Not that they won’t figure out anyway. Still. The most important thing is to get the message out, to get ahead of any of the aftershocks. I’ll have more details in an hour or so.”

There’s a long pause. “What about the product launch today? This is short notice, and the press will kill me. But do we need to cancel?”