Chương 6
“You think he may be connected to Greenridge.”
“I think you don’t know.”
“Which is why we take precautions.”
“You take me somewhere else, the reporters follow, and then another address gets out.”
Ruth folded her arms. “She’s not wrong.”
Marcus returned to the call. After listening, he said, “Daniel wants you moved to a private apartment with round-the-clock security.”
Lily laughed once.
“What?”
“That sounds like jail with better towels.”
“He can protect you.”
“He couldn’t protect Ethan.”
The kitchen went still.
Marcus did not defend his employer.
Lily wished he had. It would have made her feel less cruel.
At the hospital, Ethan woke with metal pins stabilizing his pelvis and no sensation below his knees.
Daniel was sitting beside the bed, holding a paper cup of coffee he had forgotten to drink.
Ethan opened his eyes and whispered, “You came.”
Daniel leaned forward. “I told you I would.”
“You took a long time.”
The words were soft, without accusation. That made them worse.
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“I called.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t answer.”
Daniel looked at the phone Marcus had brought from the park. Its cracked screen rested on the bedside table.
“I was in a board meeting. My phone was with my assistant.”
“I called your private number.”
“I know.”
“Forty-three times?”
Daniel swallowed. “I called you forty-three times after we realized you were missing.”
Ethan stared at the ceiling.
“I called you six times before.”
Daniel had seen those calls. Six small red marks timestamped between 6:17 and 6:42 p.m., while he had been presenting a restructuring plan to investors in London and Singapore. At 6:51, Ethan had sent a message.
I don’t want to go away.
Daniel had not read it until 7:36.
By then, Ethan had left the apartment.
“Why did you go into the park?” Daniel asked.
Ethan’s eyelids lowered.
“Buddy?”
“You said boarding school.”
“I said we were going to visit one.”
“You told Ms. Kline to pack my winter things.”
Daniel looked toward the glass wall of the hospital room. Beyond it, nurses moved between stations. A security officer stood outside, keeping cameras away.
“I thought you might like it.”
“You thought you might like it.”
Daniel’s fingers tightened around the coffee cup. The lid buckled.
Ethan turned his face toward the window.
“Where’s Lily?”
“She’s safe.”
“You don’t know that.”
Daniel set down the cup.
“She’s with a foster parent and child welfare workers.”
“That’s not what she said safe was.”
“What did she say?”
“She said safe is when you can sleep without your shoes.”
Daniel looked at Ethan’s feet beneath the hospital blanket. One sock had been removed for circulation checks. The other foot looked very small.
“I’m trying to help her.”
“Did she ask?”
“No.”
“Then don’t do it wrong.”
Daniel sat back.
Eight-year-olds were not supposed to say things that sounded like verdicts. Ethan had once spent twenty minutes crying because a restaurant put parsley on his pasta. He still forgot to flush toilets and believed socks disappeared because washing machines ate them.
But during the previous year, while Daniel worked late and staff moved through their home, Ethan had learned to observe people who were not observing him.
Daniel had mistaken quietness for recovery.
Ethan’s mother, Claire, had died fourteen months earlier after a recurrence of ovarian cancer. During her illness, Daniel had turned their apartment into a command center. Specialists, schedules, medications, consultations, flights, trials. He had fought death as if it were a hostile acquisition.
When Claire died anyway, Daniel had stopped fighting anything he could not control.
Ethan became one of those things.
Daniel hired a grief therapist, changed the household staff, reduced travel for six weeks, and then returned to work with greater force. He told himself children needed stability. He meant income, routine, and competent adults.
Ethan had needed his father to sit beside him when the apartment became quiet.
Daniel had paid someone else to do it.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“Call Lily.”
“She doesn’t have a phone.”
“Then call the person who does.”
Daniel took out his own phone.
Ruth answered.
“This is Daniel Mercer.”
“I know who you are.”
“I’d like to speak with Lily.”
“She’s eating soup.”
“I can wait.”
“Good.”
The line remained open. Daniel heard a cabinet close, Milo asking for more crackers, and Ruth telling someone that soup was not improved by staring at it.
Then Lily said, “What?”
Daniel put the call on speaker and held the phone near Ethan.
Ethan’s eyes opened fully.
“Lily?”
“You sound bad.”
“I had surgery.”
“That’s why.”
“My dad says I might walk.”
Daniel had not said that exactly. The doctors had said function could return, partially or fully, but the next seventy-two hours would matter.
Lily said, “Then do what the doctors say.”
“They make me blow into a plastic thing.”
“Do it.”
“It tastes like hospital.”
“Plastic doesn’t have a taste.”
“This does.”
She sounded irritated. Ethan smiled.
Daniel watched the change in his son’s face and felt something inside him give way.
Ethan said, “Are you warm?”
“Enough.”
“Do you sleep with your shoes?”
Lily did not answer.
Daniel looked down.
“Did you see the man?” Lily asked.
“What man?”
“Nothing.”
“Lily.”
“Your dad’s listening.”
“He’s always listening now.”
Daniel flinched.
Lily said, “Good.”
Ethan’s smile faded. “Are you in trouble?”
“Everybody says no, so probably.”
“Dad can fix it.”
“No, he can’t.”
Daniel leaned closer to the phone. “You’re right.”
Silence followed.
Lily said, “What?”
“I can’t fix everything.”
“That was fast.”
“I’m learning under pressure.”
“You still talk like a commercial.”
Ethan laughed and immediately winced.
A nurse entered, pointing toward the monitor.
“Time to rest,” Daniel said.
“Don’t hang up,” Ethan whispered.
Lily remained on the line until his breathing slowed.
Daniel listened too.
When Ethan fell asleep, Lily said, “He shouldn’t have been alone.”
“No.”
“You’re supposed to argue.”
“I’m too tired.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No.”
May you like
Another silence.
Then Lily asked, “Did you really offer a million dollars?”
