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We stand around awkwardly, the steady beeping and even release of air from the machines letting us know she’s alive. I look around at each of the men that accompanied me on this trip, and I can see in their eyes the same uncertainty and worry that I feel. Could it be possible that they are also recognizing something special in her?
Jackson unshoulders the backpack. “Maybe there’s something helpful in here?”
I’d forgotten all about it. “Can’t hurt to take a look.”
He shrugs and unzips it, the rest of us gathering around as Jackson tentatively rifles through her meager belongings. There isn’t much inside, no identification or anything with a name. We find some ripped, filthy clothes, a balled-up bus pass, some first aid supplies, and a few toiletries. Nothing interesting, until he opens the front zipper pocket and pulls out a large, very dirty pocket knife with the initials “T.K.” engraved on the handle.
Luis gingerly picks up the knife to take a closer look. The handle is covered in blood. He drops it back into the bag before turning around to find a sink, washing his hands thoroughly. The only other thing in the bag is a dated flip phone with a dead battery.
“Looks like a burner,” says Luis, drying his hands on a paper towel. “Burner phone and a bloody knife… it’s possible our girl might have been up to no good - or running from someone that was up to no good.”
We all let that sink in, and my brain catches on his use of our girl.
“Zip it all back up. I think this should stay between us for now. There’s nothing in there that would help the doctors anyway.” Everyone seems to agree except Lukas, his brow furrowed. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m fine. I think you’re right.” Lukas keeps his eyes focused on the gurney. “I’m just uncomfortable with the whole situation. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“You’re welcome to leave at any point,” Micah quips.
Lukas winces but replies sharply. “No, leaving is your thing. I’ll stay and see it through.”
“Do you two mind putting this away for now?” I gesture to the curtain as steps sound down the hall.
The curtain opens and two orderlies come in to prep the girl for transport. We step out of their way to allow them to do their job and get her to surgery. I have the strong urge to squeeze her hand or touch her in some way, but I pull my hand into my pocket to control myself.
Standing in the hallway to watch as they wheel her through another set of double doors, I overhear commotion in the next trauma room that piques my interest.
Micah’s mother returns, bringing my attention back. “If you would like to follow me, I can take you to the waiting room for surgery, and they’ll direct you to her recovery room from there.”
Micah walks next to her as we follow them to an elevator, trying not to pry as they whisper back and forth in the most bizarrely polite display of an argument I’ve ever witnessed.
The silence in the elevator is supremely awkward. Mrs. Williams is staring daggers into the side of Lukas’ face, while he pretends to find the elevator inspection sign interesting.
Jackson meets my eye and gives me a friendly nod. I can’t quite figure him out, but he shares a name and an uncanny likeness to my father, which I am finding incredibly distracting and worrisome. I try to push it down so I can focus on the here and now, aware that I will need to deal with this problem later.
The elevator comes to a smooth stop on the third floor. The doors open to an empty, quiet hallway with polished floors and dark bluish grey walls.
Mrs. Williams leads us down a few hallways to a small waiting room that is a lot more comfortable than the emergency room. There are padded chairs that recline, a TV mounted in a corner, a self-serve coffee station, and a vending machine. A large, framed window shows the setting sun over the hospital campus. In a courtyard below, there is a statue of none other than my father, Jackson Adley himself. My lip curls.
Luis is standing next to me, looking down at the courtyard with the same look of disgust and I wonder what his ire is aimed at. He makes brief eye contact with me before he retreats to sit in a far corner of the waiting room, clearly not looking for conversation.
Making myself a strong cup of black coffee, I sit down to check my messages and cringe. My phone shows a few missed calls and texts from my secretary and one message from my father - well over an hour ago. In all the excitement, I missed a lunch meeting with my father and some executives from a company we are buying out. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been less than twenty minutes early to a meeting before, I know this is not going to go over well.
“You better be dead or close to it to have a good enough excuse for not showing up today. I don’t know who you think you are, but this is not the behavior I expect from the heir to my empire. I’ll be damned if you think I will tolerate this level of disrespect and laziness. Call me, NOW.” My father, the lord of all of Barnaby Falls, demands and we give. His word is law, his expectations to be met with expediency and obedience.
Truth be told, I don’t want his empire. I don’t want to run his local corporate office, and I don’t want to be tolerated or berated. His need to control everything around him is stifling. What’s more, my fear of being like him, of needing control the way he does, terrifies me more than anything he could do to me.
Stepping outside the room, I text excuses to my secretary and take a deep breath before I call my father. He doesn’t answer, and when I call his office, his secretary informs me my father was pulled away on important last-minute business and will be out of town indefinitely. It’s not uncommon for my father to take trips for both business and pleasure, he flies out of state almost weekly in fact.
What kind of “important business” would cause him to leave without notice? I have to assume whatever it is would be related to some of his shadier business dealings. It must be big, it’s certainly unlike him to let me off the hook for anything.
I breathe a sigh of relief and join the others, waiting in silence until a doctor comes in to update us and lead us to the recovery room.
Jane Doe
Blinking, I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the low lights around me and trying not to make it obvious I’m awake. My head is foggy. I don’t know where I am or who might be around me, but my instincts know enough to be cautious.
I’m in a bed, with a pillow under my head and blankets tucked around me. I’m mostly comfortable except for an aching in my head, which has something wrapped around it, making it feel heavy. There’s a steady beeping sound infiltrating my grogginess. Opening my eyes further, I realize I’m in a medical bed and the beeping is coming from the monitors attached to me.
