It takes an eight-hour flight, a three-hour drive, and a thirty-minute ferry ride to get to Hannsett Island.
I’m feeling the thick fog of jet lag in my skull, but I grip the steering wheel of my rental car, a white PT Cruiser, and knuckle through it. Otto, who slept most of the flight, is now bouncing around excitedly, face pressed against the glass.
“Mum! Look at all the snow! It’s like a gingerbread town!”
“Yeah, baby,” I murmur. “Just like a gingerbread town.”
The last time I was here, over a decade ago, it was a different picture. Summer. Hot sun, crystal-white beaches, kids playing volleyball in the sand.
It’s winter now. December 17, to be exact. And Hannsett Island is a ghost town. The tourists, like geese, flew elsewhere for the winter, leaving nothing but locals with parkas and shovels behind. The sun dips low in the sky now, bleeding out a red winter sunset, and the lights flicker on along Main Street. Streetlamps are tethered with holly and Christmas lights. There are a couple of signs of life—a lantern flickering outside of a tavern that calls itself “The Anchor” and, bizarrely, an ice cream shop—but most of the storefronts look locked down for the winter.
The road is slick, snow drifting softly, and I drive slowly, not putting too much faith in my Cruiser’s capabilities.
As we climb the small incline up the island, the Lighthouse Medical Center comes into view. It’s a large, multibuilding medical center, connected to an old red lighthouse by the edge of the cliff, which gives it its name.
Hannsett Island has two main draws: the sparkling beaches in the summer and Lighthouse Medical, which is known as one of the most prominent medical centers in the Northeast. And, unsurprisingly, one of the most expensive and hardest to get into. The waiting list is a year out.
I know. I’ve checked. And I don’t have a year to spare.
“Are we almost there?” Otto whines. “I’m tired.”
“I know, me too, honey. We just have one more errand to run, and then we’ll be done for the night, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbles.
I don’t blame him for wanting to go to sleep. I want to sleep, too. Hell, I want to do anything except for what I’m about to do. It’s risky, it’s insane, and borderline illegal.
But I’ve got nothing left to lose.
I find the parking lot at the back of the center and park the car. Otto and I climb out, and he follows me inside. It’s freezing outside, and we’re met with a gush of hot air as soon as the sliding doors open for us. A statue sits in the lobby—a man holding up the universe. A guiding light through the dark reads the inscription, and I really hope it’s true.
I head to the front desk and pull on my nicest smile. “Hi!”
The receptionist is probably twenty minutes from clocking out, but she pulls a polite smile for me all the same. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Kenzi Stratton. I’m here to see Mr. Leonard King.”
The edge of her mouth slides downward into a frown. “I’m sorry…he’s packing up for the day. Did you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly, but it’s really important that I see him.”
Her eyes fall to Otto, who is laying his helmet-head on the counter, looking tired. I shift my body between them to get her attention. Look at me, don’t look at my kid. “I’m with the Dr. Mazie Show,” I lie. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“Oh!” Her eyes light up suddenly, excited. “Yes, I love that show. This must be about Jason’s appearance?”
“Sure is.”
She presses her lips together, thinking about it, though she’s clearly made up her mind already. “His office is on the top floor, to the left. If you go now, you might still be able to catch him.”
“Thank you.”
I quickly grab Otto’s hand and lead him to the elevator. He lets me drag him along, and we pile into the elevator.
I press the button and wait. In the metallic walls, I can half see my reflection. My thick black hair looks knotted, and I push my hands over my shirt and pants to remove any wrinkles. I wore a blazer underneath the bulky sweaters I left in the car, and I’m hoping it hides the massive sweat stains that are growing around my pits.
“How do I look?” I ask Otto.
“Like twenty bucks,” he assures me.
“Don’t you mean a million?”
“No. I mean twenty.”
The elevator doors swing open. The hallways are white, nondescript, and I follow the receptionist’s instructions and hang a left. There’s a lot of empty conference rooms on this floor, the walls layered with glass, and luxury suite hospital rooms. I come to a stop at a door marked Dr. Leonard King, CEO.
The shutters hang down around his glass walls, but I can still see a light glowing from inside. There are a couple of chairs in the hallway, and I guide Otto to sit down in one.
“Can you sit here for ten minutes? I’ll be right in that room if you need me.”
“Okay…and then we can go to bed?”
“And then we can go to bed.”
He has a ketchup stain on his button-up shirt, and I lick my thumb and wipe the stain. He makes a face that says Mum, stop messing with me.
“You’re my bacon,” I tell him.
“You’re mine,” he replies.
No way but forward. I go to the door, take a deep breath. You can do this.
No way but forward. I knock on the door and hear a low “Come in.”
So I turn the handle and enter.
There’s dark carpet on the floors and a beautiful view of the lighthouse outside the large floor-to-ceiling windows.
At a stained-oak desk sits Leonard King himself. He’s gotten older since I last saw him—the salt-and-pepper look graduated to a full-on gray beard and white-tipped sideburns.
Still handsome, though. The kind of wrinkled face they only make in Hollywood. Piercing blue eyes, just like his son. Just like his grandson.
He has a pair of reading glasses on, and he’s examining papers on his desk. When I step inside, he looks up at me from underneath thick eyebrows and narrows his eyes.
“Hi…Mr. King?”
“How can I help you?” Not unfriendly, but curt. To the point. A man who doesn’t have time for small talk.
I force myself forward and extend my hand. “Kenzi Stratton. It’s been…thirteen years now?”
He takes my hand. Shakes it. “I’m sorry. I meet a lot of patients.”
“It’s okay. I don’t expect you to remember me…last time we met, I was eighteen and pregnant, and you were trying to buy off my baby.”
His smile falters. He releases my hand and immediately straightens up in his seat. The color falls from his face, but, to his credit, he keeps his composure, his mouth a thin line. “That’s not quite how I remember it.”
“No problem—I’ll refresh your memory.” I drop my purse down on his desk and invite myself into the plush chair across from him. He doesn’t move a muscle—I’m not sure he’s even breathing, honestly. “August 2005. A precocious, geeky teenager spends the summer on glorious Hannsett Island. Meets a charming, cocky boy—that’s your son, Jason King—and decides to lose her virginity. Three positive pregnancy tests later, she comes to you looking for help. You tell her—this scared, eighteen-year-old girl—that it would be better if the pregnancy didn’t exist and that you’ll help her take care of it. You bribe her. Threaten her. And then she and her mother vanish in the wind. Are you following me so far?”
His jaw is so tight, and there’s a vein crawling up the side of his forehead, protruding. “What do you want?”
“I want you to take a peek out your window.”
He leans over and parts the shutters between his fingers. “What am I looking at?”
“The boy in the chair? That’s my son…your grandchild. Otto Stratton. Twelve years old and the best kid in the world.”
Those blue eyes turn to me. “If you want money…”
Anger lashes through me, rising up like bile, and it takes everything within me to contain it. “I don’t want your money. We’ve been doing just fine on our own.” I take in a small sip of breath. Controlled. “Otto is sick. He has been for a while now.”
Mr. King steeples his fingers together. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No. You’re not. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options.” I’m sweating. I’m shaking. But I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close to what I want. “I want you to admit him. Here. He deserves the best care.”
Mr. King leans back in his chair. He takes his time, now that our seesawing power play has swung his way momentarily. “And if I say no?” he asks.
“Then I tell my story to all of Jason’s new friends and fans.” Now my trump card, I pull out my phone and turn it to face Mr. King. I click the thumbnail, and the video plays.
