Kenzi, Otto, and Missus P pile into the car. As I drive them to Lighthouse Medical, there are ants under my skin.
I keep it together for Kenzi. She’s happy. And hopeful. And she deserves to be both of those things.
But something about this doesn’t feel right.
“How long does the surgery take?” Kenzi asks from the passenger’s seat.
“Six hours. Maybe more, depending.”
“On complications?”
“On anything. It’s just a delicate procedure.”
“But it’s safe, right?”
She’s asking a million questions, and I reach over to give her thigh a squeeze.
“I’ll give you the full run down at the hospital. Okay?”
She smiles, tightly, but I can tell she’s anxious.
“Can you stop the car?” Otto says from the backseat. He’s been quiet this whole drive and I blink in surprise.
“You okay, bud?”
“Just—stop. Please.”
I glance at Kenzi. She smile falls and she looks just as confused as I feel.
I pull the car to the side and, the second it stops, Otto unbuckles his seatbelt and jumps out.
“Otto!” Kenzi starts to get up, but I put a palm up to stall her.
“Give us five?” I ask.
Her eyes are wild, frantic. “But—”
“Five minutes. That’s all.”
I squeeze her hand and then release it. Reluctantly, she hangs back.
I get out of the car. I know where Otto’s going.
He’s climbed the rope separating the road from the dunes and he trudges through a narrow footpath that’s almost completely snowed over at this point. I follow him and we wind through the trees.
The clearing opens up at Donovan’s “Screaming Rock.”
Otto goes to the edge, but he doesn’t scream. He just sits down on the ground, hard, and stares out at the long stretch of ocean below.
His puffy jacket makes his movements awkward. He digs a small rock out from the hardened dirt. I watch as he launches the rock through the air to the ocean below.
“Otto.” I say his name, but he doesn’t turn around. He just pries out another stone.
I step over and sit down beside him. The morning cold freezes the inside of my throat and I can see my breath in front of my lips.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. His blue eyes are cast down. He looks like he’s holding back tears.
“I miss Dr. Donovan,” he says then.
“Yeah…I know you two had a special relationship.” I glance out to the water. “I uh…I’m not really good with kids.”
Otto looks up at me, blinks. But he’s listening.
I continue, “My dad…he wasn’t really good with kids either. When me and my brother were growing up, he didn’t know how to play with us. Support us. I guess what I’m trying to say is…I’m not going to get this right all the time. But. If you’d let me…I’d really like to be there for you.”
Otto looks at me. Those blue eyes are glassy now.
I slip my hand to his shoulder and give a light squeeze. “You’re a strong kid. Really strong. I’m proud of you, bud.”
He sniffs and glances away. “Thanks.”
His small body leans against mine, and I can hear him sniffling. I draw my fingers through his hair.
“It’s okay,” I murmur to him. “It’s going to be okay.”
At the Medical Center, I drop Kenzi, Missus P, and Otto off in the waiting room.
Transplants are my specialty. So I’ll be performing the surgery on the live donor. Which makes it my job to screen the donor.
Making the call to be a live donor isn’t easy. The recipient is getting better—the surgery, if successful, will most likely have a positive outcome on their life.
With a live donor, you’re removing the organ of an otherwise healthy person. It’s risky. It can, and often will, have lasting consequences. It can also be the most rewarding thing a person can do with their lives. They are, in my opinion, the real heroes. But it makes it all the more important that I make sure the donor knows what they’re getting into, and that they’re prepared for what’s ahead of them.
I check in with the front desk, and they let me know that my donor is waiting on the second floor. I scale the steps and head into a private conference room.
I’m not entirely prepared to see the person waiting for me, though.
He’s an older gentleman—in his sixties, maybe. His gray hair is long, tied back in a familiar ponytail. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt—even in the dead of winter—and a too-big smile.
“Mr. Blake?” I ask.
“Jason!” He stands, jovial, and shakes my hand. “Or should I call you Dr. King now? Boy, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”
“Sure has.”
It’s been nearly a decade since I last saw Terry Blake. He used to own a boat at the marina. And, for about a year, he was married to Pearl Stratton. The first time I met Kenzi, she was a smart-ass eighteen-year-old, tired of watching her newly married mom and Mr. Blake make out on their boat.
And then he and Pearl got divorced—though as far as I could tell, it wasn’t particularly contentious, it just didn’t work. He still showed up now and then to play golf with my father, but eventually, he faded from the picture.
I hadn’t thought anything about it then. Until now.
He shakes my hand a little too long, and I notice the sweat on his palms. “It’s good to see you,” I tell him as I retract my hand and take a seat. “I’ve been wondering what happened to Sweet Harmony.”
“Ah—had to sell her.” He shows all of his teeth when he smiles. “You know how things get.”
“Sure.” He sits across from me, crosses one leg over the other, then seems to rethink it and puts both feet on the ground. I smile. Try to put him at ease. “What prompted you to want to be a donor?”
He goes somber, which is a strange look on him. “I heard Kenzi’s kid was having a time of it. Hell of a thing. And I thought to myself, dammit, Terry, you’ve never done one good thing in your life. Here’s a kid who needs you. Step up to the plate!”
“That’s admirable of you. And your doctor walked you through the potential consequences?”
“Oh, they’ve given me the whole spiel. Took my blood, did the workup. Said I’m a great match for the kid. When do we get going with this anyhow?”
He won’t stop fidgeting. Alarm bells are ringing in my head. “In a minute. Since I’m the surgeon, I like to have a one-on-one with my patient beforehand so I make sure you understand the outcomes. There’s infection. You could develop a hernia from the site. Of course, there’s always the risk of a fatal complication.”
He’s starting to sweat. His grin is more of a grimace now. “But you’re the best surgeon there is, right?”
“Even good surgeons know the risks.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign. Agree to the terms and conditions, all that.”
He fishes a tissue out of his pocket and starts using it to dab his forehead. He’s lost some hair at the top of his head, and there’s a balding patch in the back.
“One more question,” I say smoothly. “How much is my father paying you to do this?”
The smile slides off his face completely, and it tells me everything I need to know.
My father’s office is on the top floor. Glass walls, often with the shutters drawn. The biggest office in the building, and one of the best views of Hannsett Island.
The King needs his tower, after all.
I don’t bother knocking. I just push inside and let myself in.
“We need to talk,” I say.
Not can we talk? Or when is a good time for you?
Now. We need to talk now.
My father lifts his eyes from behind his desk. He must sense the shift in the temperature, because he says, “Patterson, I’m going to have to call you back.”
He hangs up his call, setting his phone down. Immediately, I launch into it. “You tried to buy Terry Blake’s kidney. That’s coercion. Organ trade. You could see prison time for that.”
A laugh leaves my father. “What stories has he told you? That man was always half out of his mind…”
“Stop!” I demand. “Tell me the truth! For once!”
My father’s mouth draws into a thin line. He opens his hand and gestures to the seat in front of him. “Sit down.”
I don’t. I’m done with him pulling my strings like a marionette. I plant my palms on the table and look him in the eyes. “You’ve been controlling my life from day one—”
“And look where’s it got you.” His eyes are a thunderstorm, his voice low and dangerous. “The top surgeon in the Northeast.”
“I did that,” I snap. “Me. With my own two hands and a scalpel. Not you.”
He goes quiet. “Is that what you think? You were a spoiled brat. Partying on my boat. Getting drunk. Having sex. Do you think I didn’t know? If I hadn’t pulled the strings I did, you’d be nowhere. Nothing.”
“Not nothing. I’d be a father. Otto’s father.”
A bitter hiss of a laugh leaves him. “So she told you. I knew she’d crack eventually, the two-faced bitch—”
“Two-faced? Her? You’ve been lying to me for years!”
He rises from his chair quickly. I remember how much that used to scare me—the way he’s looking at me right now. How it used to make me feel so small. How I used to sink backward, cowering underneath him.
I don’t even flinch now. I stand my ground, calmly.
For a second, I see a look of surprise flicker across his face. His jaw tightens. Sternly, he tells me, “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. So you could, one day, fill my shoes. I would have done anything to see you succeed, and I regret none of it. You’re a father now, and one day, you’ll understand—”
I cut him off. “You’re right,” I tell him, “I am a father now. And I’m going to make damned sure I’m not anything like you.”
I push up from the tips of my fingers and straighten up. I’m taller than him. I have been since my limbs shot up in high school. But I never felt like the bigger man…until now.
For the first time in my life, I see how small he is. How fragile and insecure. The fear behind those cloudy blue eyes.
The last thing I see is his slack-jawed expression as I exit his office and close the door behind me.
I pick up a phone in the hallway and call downstairs to the OR. “Stop prepping Otto Stratton,” I tell the nurse. “The transplant is canceled.”
“No. It’s not.”
From nowhere…there’s Donovan. I blink, because he must be a mirage. He’s a fucking sight for sore eyes, tucked away in his leather jacket and black pants. Hair messy. Soft, dark eyes.
I want to hug him. I want to kiss him. But I don’t.
I just got finished cutting one toxic person out of my life. I’m not about to let a second one in. And right now, Donovan is a big question mark.
“Donovan.” I keep my voice even as I put down the phone. “What are you doing here…?”
“Keep prepping Otto,” he repeats, confident. “Surgery is on.”
I clench my jaw. Of course he’s going to fight me on this. “I don’t know if you remember…but you left. Pretty dramatically. You’re not his doctor anymore.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” Then he lifts his arm. There’s a plastic hospital band loose around his wrist. “I’m his kidney.”
