“It’s a subdural hematoma. Small, but dangerous. The mortality rate on these types of brain injuries is high. If the blood clot doesn’t resolve on its own in forty-eight hours, she’ll need surgery to relieve the pressure inside the skull and repair the injured vessels.”
“What’s the mortality rate?”
“The frequency of death in a certain population over a specific period of time.”
I have to physically restrain myself from pulling out my gun and shooting this idiot doctor in the face. “I meant what’s the mortality rate for subdural hematomas?”
“Oh, sorry. Fifty to ninety percent.”
That stuns me. “You’re telling me that most people with this condition die?”
“At least half of them, yes.”
When I stare at him in horror, he quickly backtracks.
“But most of these injuries are seen in the elderly or in patients who’ve been in car accidents or other highly traumatic events. Considering the age and overall health of this patient, her chances are much better than average.”
I hear myself growl, “They better be. If she dies, so do you.”
Because he knows who I am, he goes white. I jerk my chin at Kieran, who ushers the doctor out of the room before he can lose control of his bowels.
When the door closes, I tell Kieran, “Lock this whole fucking hospital down. Post men at all the exits and entrances and outside her room. Vet every person who wants to access this floor, including staff. Call O’Malley at the precinct and tell him we’re in charge of Mass General until further notice. I don’t want police interference, and I definitely don’t want anyone trying to kidnap my captive.”
“Aye, boss.”
He turns to leave.
“And Kieran?”
He turns back to me, waiting.
“I’m putting you in charge of this because I think that’s what she’d want. Don’t disappoint me.”
He vows, “I won’t, boss. Nobody will get near our lass.”
Our lass. Christ, now she’s the team mascot?
Kieran sees my face and does the smart thing and leaves.
When I’m alone in the empty room, I take a moment to compose myself. Then I enter the adjoining room where Sloane is.
Pale but alert, she’s sitting up in bed, playing with the TV remote control, clicking through channels. When she sees me, however, she stops.
“Oh god. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Aye. Subdural hematoma. There’s at least a fifty percent chance you’ll die.”
After a beat, she says, “Gee, don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Would you want me to?”
“No. But you don’t have to look so happy about it, either.”
I sit in the chair next to the bed, drag a hand through my hair, and sigh. “I’m not happy about it.”
“So that’s your sad face?”
“This is my my-captive-is-a-pain-in-my-fucking-arse face.”
“Ah, yes, now I recognize it. You could star in a hemorrhoid cream commercial with that mug.”
We gaze at each other. I’m trying not to feel admiring at how she’s taking the news, but I should’ve known better. She’s not one to break down and cry, even when she could be dying.
“Is there anyone you want me to call?”
Without missing a beat, she says, “Oprah Winfrey. I’ve always wanted to meet her. I feel like we’d hit it off, she’d invite me to all the cool parties at her Montecito mansion, and that’s where I’d meet my future husband, the crown prince of Monaco. Or Morocco. I can’t remember which was the cute one.”
I fight a smile. “I’ll get right on that. Anyone else?”
She sighs, settles back against the pillows, and shakes her head. “No. My mom passed away years ago, and I only talk to my dad on holidays. His new wife doesn’t really like me. You probably already knew that, considering you’re omniscient and all, but if anything happens to me, please let Natalie know. I don’t want to worry her by telling her I’m here, but she’ll freak out if she doesn’t hear from me again soon. She’s probably already freaking out now. She’s very emotional, you know. She’s the sensitive one.”
She trails off, chewing her lip and frowning.
“She’s lucky to have you as a friend. You’re very loyal.”
Sloane looks like I just informed her I sold her to a circus. “I’m sorry, it must be my janky brain, but I thought I heard you say something nice to me.”
Now I can’t help my smile. “It was definitely your janky brain.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I stand and take off my jacket. I throw it over the back of the chair, then sit down again and pick up the celebrity gossip magazine from the small table beside the bed. I settle in the chair, get comfortable, and start to read.
“Um. What are you doing?”
I don’t look up from the magazine when I answer. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Sitting. Reading. Staying.”
I say drily, “Your powers of observation are astonishing.”
Silence follows, but I know it will be short. And I’m right.
“Declan?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Don’t you have important gangster things you should be out doing? Murdering your enemies and whatnot? Skulking around dark alleyways?”
“Aye, lass.” I turn the page.
“So…”
“If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me. I don’t trust that idiotic fifteen-year-old doctor.”
“Are you talking about the brain surgeon?”
“Aye. Looks like he got his medical license from a Cracker Jack box.”
Sloane starts to laugh. The sound is soft and surprisingly sweet. Even more surprising is how much I like hearing it.
“Are you sure you’re only forty-two? Cracker Jacks are like from my dad’s era.”
I lower the magazine and look at her. “You remembered how old I said I was.”
“I remember everything you’ve said.”
When I raise my brows, her pale cheeks flush with color.
“Oh, shut up.”
“You first.”
She sighs in aggravation and rolls onto her side, her back facing me. I go back to my magazine.
After a five-minute pause where I can almost hear her internal struggle, she rolls over and pronounces, “This is very strange. You know that, right?”
I respond without looking up from the magazine, because I know it annoys her. “Which part?”
“All the parts. The whole thing! Me, you, kidnapping, car chases, hematomas, imminent death, hello?”
“It’s probably best not to get too excited, lass. We don’t want you bursting any more brain vessels.”
“Are you…are you laughing at me?”
I say mildly, “Why, would your Teflon ego be hurt if I were?”
Another five minutes of silent seething passes before she can’t stand it anymore. She sits up in bed. “Declan!”
I glance at her. “Mmm?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Holding her gaze, I say, “Protecting you. Go to sleep.”
She opens her mouth, but closes it when—a miracle—she can’t find anything to say. Lying back against the pillows, she pulls the sheets up under her nose and looks at me with wide eyes.
It’s disarmingly adorable. I wonder if she practices this stuff in front of a mirror.
“Declan?”
“For fuck’s sake, lass, just ask the question. Don’t say my name every time first.”
She mutters, “So many rules.”
I snap the magazine instead of her neck and go back to reading.
“I was just wondering if you could tell me a story.”
I cut my gaze to hers.
Her voice comes out small. “To help me sleep.”
When I narrow my eyes in suspicion, she says, “Please?”
“Whatever kind of game this is, I’m not playing.”
After a moment, she whispers, “Okay,” and rolls onto her side again, tucking her legs up to her chin so she’s in a ball. A small, pathetic-looking ball.
I toss the magazine to the bedside table, wishing I hadn’t given up on religion years ago. Now would be a good time to pray for god to kill me and save me from this misery.
Heaving a sigh, I begin. “Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived…” I glance at the back of her head. “A princess.”
Sloane turns slightly, listening. I continue.
“A terribly homely princess, with buck teeth, facial hair, and a large hump on her back. She looked like a wee camel, in fact.”
She mutters, “Walt Disney, you’re not.”
“Am I telling this, or are you going to keep interrupting me?”
A grumble of discontent is my answer.
“As I was saying. The wee camel princess was homely, but she had an interesting personality that drew people to her. They had a hard time getting past her hideous looks, but once they did, they discovered she had a magical talent for…are you ready?”
She says flatly, “I can hardly contain my excitement.”
“Talking to animals.”
After a long pause, curiosity gets the better of her. “What kinds of animals?”
“All of them. But mainly dogs. The wee camel princess could make any dog, no matter how rabid or feral, fall in love with her and do her bidding.”
“Ah. I see where this is going. The princess will fall in love with Lassie and create a new race of half-camel, half-dog babies called campups who turn on humans and kill them all. The end.”
“No, but if that idea were made into a movie, I’d watch it. Especially if the campups were genetically modified so their left paw-arms were laser cannons they could operate by thought. May I proceed?”
She sighs heavily. I take it as an affirmative.
“One day the homely princess was going to visit her good friend Neddie, when suddenly she was abducted by the biggest, strongest, handsomest dog she had ever seen. He was the king of all the dogs—the top dog, so to speak—and famous for his bravery. Also for his intelligence. It was far superior to the wee camel princess’s intelligence. Which was rather pathetic, despite her delusions otherwise.”
“You’re so lacking in imagination, there’s a hole in your head where your brain should be.”
Holding back a chuckle, I go on. “So the brave, strong, handsome, warrior-king dog—”
She mutters, “Unbelievable.”
“—locks the wee camel princess up in his castle. His plan was to interrogate her for information on his sworn enemy, who she had befriended. What he didn’t know, however, is how messy camels are. And stinky. Within days, the whole place reeked of regurgitated, half-digested grass. The castle smelled like a giant trash bin on a hot summer day. Oh, and greasy fur. And dung.”
“Charming. Was this camel princess’s name Slang, by any chance? Slung? Slune?”
Her tone is so sour, I have a hard time holding back a laugh. “No. Her name was Drone.”
“Drone. Because she talked so much. You missed your true calling in comedy, gangster.”
“I am quite funny, aren’t I?”
“You’d be a lot funnier with a broken nose.”
A nurse enters the room. Sloane quips, “Oh, good, maybe she brought an enema we can use to flush that stick out of your ass.”
I have to cover my mouth with a hand to keep from laughing.
The nurse introduces herself as Nancy and says she’s going to take Sloane’s blood pressure. Then she turns to me with a tentative smile. “And you must be the father.”
Sloane bursts into raucous laughter. Rolling over to gloat at me, she says, “Burn! Yes, that’s my dad, Father Time, over there. He’s not nearly as young and handsome as he thinks he is.”
The nurse’s smile falters. “I meant the father of the baby.”
I fall still. My stomach clenches into a knot. It suddenly becomes very hard to breathe.
Sloane’s still laughing. “Good one, gangster. How much did you pay her to say that?”
When she sees the expression on my face, her laughter dies.
Wide-eyed, she looks back at the nurse. Her face turns pale. Her voice comes out strangled. “Wait. What…what baby?”
At least the nurse has the good manners to look apologetic when she answers.
“The doctor didn’t tell you? You’re pregnant.”
