Page 68 of The Wedding Party

Chapter Fifty-Eight

It’s just before eight the next morning when York and I load into the department-issued black sedan we’ll be using to escort Carrie to the airport. His face is shadowed with gray stubble. My eyes are puffy, my hair clean but damp. I’m walking death and he dares to ask, “Any morning thoughts on the case?”

“Coffee.” It’s the logical answer with both of us running on no sleep. “Just need coffee. Then ask for thoughts.”

“Right-o, Madam FBI Agent.” He starts the engine and jokes, “You’re cranky without your coffee. I bet your father beats you with a baseball bat if you talk to him before his coffee.”

“Before his morning whisky,” I reply, and irritated at his constant jabs, I add, “and if you keep going at my father like you are, I’ll ensure he’s brought on as a consultant on the case and have him start here with you. Then you can ask him about his morning habits all by your lonesome without me as a buffer.” I glance over at him, and his eyes are wide.

“All right, then,” he says. “No more talkie without the coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And for the record, I’m not cranky. Not at all.” I could tell him that my dad is a good man, and a single father who was always there for me, but why? I just want York to stop talking about the wrong things. Right now, his discomfort is almost as refreshing as my morning coffee will be.

Still, thankfully, York swings us by a local-brand coffee shop, which is about all there is up here. Shortly after, we’re at the hospital, entering the parking lot through an area closed off to the press. The police presence is as solid as this little town allows. Once we’re by the door where we’ll exit the hospital with Carrie, York eagerly offers to stay behind and wait on the second car and detective that will be backup today. He’s uncomfortable now, and I say that’s what he gets for running his mouth about my father. I head inside, cup in hand, downing the remainder of my coconut mocha by the time I’m forced to deal with Ms. Littleton and her coconspirator, Dr. Mendez.

The three of us gather at the nurses’ station for a cordial interaction. “Doctor,” I greet him with a nod, before shifting my attention to add Carrie’s attorney. “Ms. Littleton.”

“Danielle,” she reminds me.

I don’t agree or disagree with the name.

This morning, using her first name just feels plain unnatural, too casual and quite fake friendly. If it feels weird on my tongue, and Danielle does, I’m not speaking it. I’m simply not keen on false narratives, and anything that involves her and me is a false narrative. It’s bad enough we’re twinsies today, both in black pants, boots, and silk blouses. One of those blouses is red, though, and it’s not mine. I tend to stick to black when I’m wearing my badge. That way it’s the star of the show, not me.

“She’s approved for travel,” Dr. Mendez states on Carrie’s condition, “but she is not approved for questioning. Her mental state is delicate.”

“Which is why I’ll be by her side the entire trip,” Ms. Littleton replies, in an obvious warning shot.

“Of course you will,” I reply dryly, but my focus is on Dr. Mendez. “When will she be discharged?”

“She’s dressing now and we’re preparing her paperwork,” the doctor replies. “I’d say give us twenty minutes.” He shakes both of our hands and departs.

“Can we skip the cuffs?” Ms. Littleton asks. “She’s not going to make a run for it.”

“No,” I say, and I don’t explain myself. She is aware that there’s a protocol to follow for the one and only prime suspect in a violent murder, who I’ve yet to even properly question. And furthermore, I’m not about to send either of them the wrong message. I don’t know if Carrie is our killer, but there’s more of a chance that she is than not, and my job is to give her reasons to cooperate.

“Once she’s on the helicopter?” she presses.

“You already know my answer, but she’ll be well protected on our exit from the hospital,” I state. “I assume the chopper’s ready?”

“The Phoenixes have confirmed it’s on standby when we’re ready.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to notify our team of transport.” I step around her and speak to the officer at the door, eager to get things moving. If I get my way, I’ll be talking to Carrie before this trip is over.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

CARRIE

I stand under the hot water of the hospital shower, free of my cuff long enough to clean up and dress. This after I was allowed my normal drug cocktail with my morning juice and coffee, but Dr. Mendez warns me that will likely change at the treatment facility.

I dislike the fact that he’s been added to the short list of people who know my dirty little secret. The truth is that I’ve been having panic attacks for most of my life. My parents think they started over Eric’s death and ended a year later. Oliver knew they never ended, as does my doctor back home.

But no one knows, and no one will ever know, that they started before Eric was ever hit by that car.

Ever. It’s one of my flaws. It’s part of what makes me, me, and I don’t even know where that originates. I’m not a Reynolds by birth. I don’t even know my real last name. I just know that being a Phoenix, connected to Oliver, felt almost necessary—it felt like survival. I have a flickering memory of Oliver and that box, and I’m instantly stabbed with the sense of betrayal I felt when his office door was locked. When he locked me out.

I try unsuccessfully to shove away that memory. I don’t want to remember that night and how I felt, but I decide it’s about a sense of being alone. Outside that door that night, that’s what I felt. Alone. So very alone. And that is what I am now.

Alone.