Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“To a regular room?” McGee demanded. “Not ICU or whatever?”
The doctor seemed shocked we even had to ask. “Definitely not. Standard medical floor. It might take a few days, but your, uh… loved one… is going to be okay.”
That look of surprise convinced me she meant it, and the relief that flooded my bloodstream was sweet… though it left me nearly as shaky as my earlier panic.
When the doctor walked away, McGee chuckled and bumped my shoulder again. “You know that doc thought Reagan was your son, right?” he said in a low voice.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Thank you, McGee. That’s just what I needed to hear right now.”
“Think maybe I should go back there and tell her some of the things I’ve heard the two of you get up to?”
“Shut your mouth,” I warned, but the smile in my voice probably ruined the effect.
“Just sayin’. Not very parental, if you ask me. Oooh, or maybe she thought I was your son,” he suggested, wiggling his pierced eyebrow. Despite the mask he wore, I could tell his trademark shit-eating grin was in full effect. “That would make Reagan your son-in-law.”
I elbowed him. “You wish.”
McGee laughed and dropped his teasing. “Hell no. Too mouthy. I like ’em cuter and sweeter, like—” He broke off, looking vaguely guilty, and cleared his throat. “Ah. Like no one in particular.”
I stared at him. “Wait. Have you been holding out on me? Did you break your no-hookups rule?”
“No! I mean, not exactly? I’m into someone,” he admitted. “Really into him. But I’m not saying anything else until I know he’s into me.” His cheeks flushed, and his biceps rippled as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “It’s fucking weird, man. I’ve faced big-ass motherfuckers in the cage, and I’m all, ‘Let’s fucking go.’ Zero nerves, all adrenaline. But wanting someone this much?” He shook his head, mystified. “Makes my knees weak, it’s so terrifying.”
“McGee,” I said wryly, wrapping a companionable arm over his shoulders, “I know exactly what you mean.”
The hospital room was dim, and the steady, low beep of the cardiac monitor assured me Reagan was still comfortably asleep. The doctor had come in a few hours ago to give an official diagnosis—pneumonia, as a complication of a severe flu infection, just as they’d thought. With the help of IV meds and a breathing treatment, Reagan’s fever had subsided, and his oxygen levels were stable, but given the extent of his illness, his body was worn-out. “He’s asleep, and it’s the best thing for him, so don’t be surprised if he doesn’t wake up for hours,” the doctor had warned in a tone that added an unspoken “…so stop harassing us about it.”
I was trying my best, but where Reagan’s struggle had left him exhausted, it had left me restless and on-edge. I wanted a task. A goal. A target. Something to do or fight or protect or solve.
When McGee took a break to grab some food, I refused to go. Instead, as I stared at Reagan in the semi-darkness, listening to the beeping, I remembered I’d promised him I’d call JT… which, I realized with some chagrin, I probably should have done earlier since no one in Honeybridge knew anything about Reagan’s condition.
When I pulled out my phone, I had thirteen missed calls and twenty-two messages from JT alone, plus several more from January and Layla. I ignored those.
When JT answered, he sounded distraught. “Thatcher? Oh, thank fuck. Reagan hasn’t replied to me all afternoon. If I need to come out there, I will—”
“Reagan’s okay,” I said quickly. “He’s in the hospital being treated for flu with a side of pneumonia—”
“Holy shit. Pneumonia?”
“He’s in good hands, JT,” I said, repeating what McGee had been telling me for hours. “He’s breathing okay now and sleeping peacefully. And I’m right here with him.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end before a very firm and relieved “Good.”
“He was, ah… not making a whole lot of sense for a little while there, thanks to the fever and the oxygen thing, but he kept insisting that I talk to you. Something about an email and Layla’s shirt? If that doesn’t make any sense to you either, he might have been dreaming—”
“Oh, no,” JT assured me. “That was very real.”
He proceeded to tell me a story about Terrance—the former PennCo employee Reagan had found through Instagram—and some notes he’d made on a presentation slide deck. He also explained how Reagan, sick as he’d been this morning, had managed to trace those clues directly to the source of the Nova Davidson incident…
Layla, herself.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed Layla capable of it. Even a few days ago, I might have tried to find another explanation. But after everything that had happened, it now seemed so obvious I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been.