His Every Word (8 page)

“He tried to kill you, too,” her mother reminded her.

“Thanks—I’m aware of that. But I was just collateral damage.”

Sean continued to drink. He was on his second beer. “There was another woman involved, too,” he said.

Kallie glared at him. “Sean. What the hell?”

He looked up at her. “I’m just saying.”

“What does that mean?” her mother asked. “Another woman?”

Kallie sighed, as she picked at her club sandwich. “Hunter was helping Terrence’s girlfriend hide out, helping her get away from a bad situation. She wanted to break up with Terrence, but he was threatening her. So Hunter gave her a place to hide from Terrence, and when Hunter refused to tell him where she was, Terrence went crazy.”

“This is all so confusing,” her mother muttered.

“That’s why I didn’t want to go into it, but Sean forced me to.”

Sean took a long gulp of beer and belched again. “I’m just saying—Hunter’s being turned into a fucking saint. He’s no saint, Kallie.”

“I never said he was a saint.”

“My own fiancé is acting like he’s Brad Pitt and Jesus Christ rolled into one.”

“Sean!” their mother cried. “Don’t be blasphemous.”

“Calm down Mom,” Sean said. “It was just a figure of speech.”

“You know how I feel about that kind of talk.”

The table descended into an awkward silence. Meanwhile, Detective Phillips happily chewed on his burger, seemingly oblivious to the interpersonal dynamics going on around him.

“How’s your food?” Kallie asked him.

He smiled. “Great.”

Her father eyed the detective curiously. “So, Mister—“

“Phillips,” he said, still chewing his food.

“Mister Phillips, how did you come to know Hunter and my daughter?”

“I worked on her assault case.”

“You’re a police officer?”

“I’m a detective.”

Her parents exchanged another worried look. Kallie wanted to run out of the restaurant and go lay in bed in her hotel room, or better yet—just go back to the hospital to be with Hunter. Instead, she was stuck here in a nightmare, watching her parents cross-examine a detective about his role in her life.

“Is Kallie still in danger?” her father continued.

Detective Phillips popped a fry in his mouth. “Possibly.”

Kallie glared at him. “Don’t tell them anything else.”

Kallie’s mother looked at her now. “Why would you say that? What are you hiding from us?”

“I’m not hiding anything. It’s just none of your concern, Mom.”

“It certainly is our concern. We’re your parents.”

The detective was happily eating still, and Kallie felt a strong urge to take his food and throw it in his lap.

“I know you’re my parents,” Kallie replied, “but I’m also an adult now. And I can decide what I want to tell you and what I don’t feel comfortable divulging just yet.”

“Well, I find this entire situation to be incredibly frightening,” her mother said.

“This is exactly what we were afraid might happen when you left Ohio.”

“Bad things happen everywhere, Mom.”

“I don’t think you even understand how serious this is. Why won’t you just come home with us now?”

“I’m staying here with Hunter.”

Her mother’s jaw quivered. “Even if it ends up getting you killed.”

“I’m not going to get killed.”

He father watched her closely. Finally, he spoke in a soft, even tone. “You told us you were mugged the other day. But that wasn’t true, was it? The assault wasn’t just a random mugging—they weren’t after your money.”

Kallie had backed herself into a corner, she realized. By trying to keep the truth from her parents, she’d inadvertently made things seem even worse than they were. And on top of that, now they were beginning to distrust her—and rightfully so.

“The assault wasn’t random,” she admitted. “It wasn’t a mugging. It was Terrence sending Hunter a message, by hurting someone close to him.”

Her mother started to cry, then. Right there at the dinner table, she began to weep. Kallie’s father began comforting her, quietly speaking into her ear.

“Well, this is awkward,” Sean said, draining the last of his beer and pushing the glass away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” Kallie said, as her mother slowly ceased her crying.

Her father’s mouth was a line of disapproval. “Why didn’t you tell us what was going on? Why did you keep these things from us?”

“Because there was nothing you could have done. The police were involved, and I didn’t think anything else was going to come of it.”

“We shouldn’t talk about this anymore,” her dad said. “Your mother’s too upset.”

Everyone began to eat, and there was very little talking—just the sounds of silverware clattering and people eating their meals.

When lunch was mercifully finished, the five of them went out into the hotel lobby. Kallie made sure to give her mother a long hug. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Her mother hugged her back fiercely. “We miss you.”

“I miss you guys, too.”

Her phone was ringing again. Maybe it was Hunter, she thought, and checked her cell. It was Bryson. She considered answering, but decided against it. There were more important things to deal with than movie stuff—all of that could wait.

She put her phone away. Everyone was looking at her expectantly, as if she was supposed to deliver a speech now, say something important and dramatic, make sense of the chaos. “Thanks for being here for me,” was all she could muster.

“Will you consider flying back to Ohio with us, the day after tomorrow?” her father said. His expression was so pained and hopeful, his voice so halting—it nearly broke her heart.

“Dad, I can’t do that. I can’t leave Hunter right now.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

She laughed. “Of course not.”

“It’s not so silly. How do we know you didn’t run off and elope without telling us?”

“I would never do that.”

“Maybe not. The old Kallie wouldn’t have.” The hurt in his eyes was a testament to how badly she’d screwed things up by lying to them about what was going on.

“I promise I’ll do better, I’ll keep you informed from now on,” she told him. She looked at her mother, but the older woman seemed lost in her own world.

“Just take care of yourself. Call us. Maybe we can see you tomorrow?” her father asked.

“Of course I’ll see you tomorrow. Dad, I’m still Kallie—I’m still your daughter.

Nothing’s changed.”

“It seems to me that everything’s changed,” he sighed.

***

Kallie listened to her many phone messages as she and Detective Phillips walked back to the hospital. There were some old messages from her mother and father and brothers, sounding frantic—telling her they loved her and wanting her to call them as soon as she could.

There was a message from Max Weisman, the producer of their film—a surprisingly kind Max Weisman. He told her he’d just gotten the news and that he would do anything he could to help. “Just call me if you need anything, anything at all,” he said, in his throaty voice. His words were at odds with the shouting, flamboyant character she’d met in his office yesterday. But she thought that his making the effort to call and offer help had been incredibly kind. “Don’t worry about business,” he said at the end of his message. “Business is never as important as health. So heal up and rest up, and the movie will wait for you.”

Then there were some messages from reporters—God only knew how they’d gotten her number so quickly. They were tactful and polite, telling her that they were doing stories about the attack and were interested in getting Kallie’s comment, if she was feeling up to it.

Bryson’s message was the last one, and she listened to it just as she walked into the hospital. “Hey, Kallie, it’s Bryson,” he said, his voice sounding unsure on the message. “God, I don’t even know what to say. I’m absolutely devastated. Please know that you can call me day or night if you need anything. I’m thinking of you guys.” His voice broke a little at the end of the sentence. There was a long pause. “Well…I also heard from Max Weisman.” For some reason, he laughed after speaking the producer’s name. “Maybe, when you’re feeling better, you can call me about that, too.” Another long pause. “God, I’m just totally at loose ends here. I can’t stop thinking about what’s happened. Please call me when you get a chance, Kallie.”

Kallie put her phone away and tried to shake the feeling that she was missing things—letting things get away from her. There were too many responsibilities—too many things to do and people to consider. All she really wanted to do was think of Hunter’s health—but that was the one thing she had the least control over.

Detective Phillips saw the police officer sitting outside Hunter’s room on a cheap plastic chair. “Reinforcements have arrived,” he said.

“You made that happen?” she asked him.

“Hey, I’m not totally useless.”

She was suddenly filled with gratitude and affection for him. “Thank you, Detective.”

He smiled. “It was the least I could do after botching your case as badly as I did.”

The officer guarding the room looked at them. “Are you here to visit Mr.

Reardon?”

“That we are,” Phillips replied. He showed his badge. “I’m Detective Phillips.

This is Kallie Young, Mister Reardon’s girlfriend.”

The officer smiled. He was Hispanic—younger, with kind brown eyes. “Go on in, then.”

She started into Hunter’s room and the detective hung back, striking up a conversation with the officer. They didn’t know each other personally, but cops were cops and they immediately fell into an easy patter.

Kallie went in and closed the door behind her.

Hunter was sleeping, his eyes closed, mouth open. He looked impossibly frail as he lay in the hospital bed, and she was struck anew by just how dire his situation was.

A lightning bolt of fear struck behind her head, at the top of her spine, sending a wave of panic through her entire body as she stood and stared at the man she loved.

He looks as if he could be dead
.

Immediately, she ran to his bedside, checking the heart monitor, which seemed to indicate that he was fine.

He’s just sleeping, that’s all. He’s sick, he’s wounded, he’s been through a
trauma. But he’s not dying.

She pulled a chair next to him and sat down, holding his hand and kissing it lightly. Hunter didn’t even stir as she did this, perhaps because he was drugged.

Something’s wrong with him, Kallie thought. He’s not getting better.

The clearness and intensity of her thoughts scared her deeply. How could she be so sure Hunter wasn’t improving? There was no evidence that anything was wrong.

But the anxiety was eating at her now. She thought about Hunter’s surgeon, Doctor Forrest. Was it possible that he wasn’t really a good doctor?

She wanted to believe that Hunter was in capable hands—needed to believe it.

With nothing else to do, she took out her phone and pulled up the Internet, plugging Doctor Forrest’s name into it and searching for his credentials.

His CV and Bio came up on the first page of her search, and there was no question that his background was impeccable. She read with great interest: BIOGRAPHY

Dr. Forrest assumed the role of Professor and Chief of the Division of Thoracic
Surgery in 1982. Prior to 1982, Forrest served as a Professor of Thoracic Surgery at
Johns Hopkins for nearly a decade. He earned his medical degree at Harvard, trained in
surgery at Penn, and completed his thoracic surgery training at Brigham and Women’s
Hospital.

Dr. Forrest has been listed as a Top Doctor in Boston Magazine, as well as The
New York Times, on multiple occasions. He was awarded The Society of Thoracic
Surgeons Distinguished Service Award in 1998. Evidence of his expert status among his
peers includes membership on the editorial board of the Annals of Thoracic Surgery.

She read and re-read Dr. Forrest’s biography, feeling a sense of relief as she did so. There was no way that a man of his distinguished background could be incompetent.

He was one of the best in the entire field, and had been for some time.

So why was she so suspicious of him?

Kallie knew the answer. It was because Dr. Forrest was old. She hated that she was being so superficial about it, but seeing him limp around his office, and hearing him make comments about not knowing how to use email had planted seeds of doubt in her mind.

But there were plenty of brilliant people who shunned modern conveniences like email and Facebook and so forth—weren’t there?

She knew that there were such people. Obviously, Dr. Forrest was one of them.

He was one of the top thoracic surgeons in the world and she needed to trust his expertise.

Hunter looked frail and sick because of what he’d been through—not because of anything Dr. Forrest or the hospital staff had done wrong.

Kallie told herself to stop being paranoid. Hunter was clearly in good hands. But looking at him, seeing his waxy pallor, feeling the clamminess of his hand, she didn’t feel much better at all.

However, about fifteen or twenty minutes after she’d arrived in the room, Hunter stirred. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she saw a little bit of the “old” Hunter in his expression. “You couldn’t stay away from me, could you?” he chuckled.

Her heart soared upon seeing him awake, and hearing the life in his voice. “I can’t ever be away from you again,” she said.

“Well, that could be arranged.”

“How are you feeling?”

He cleared his throat. “Not bad. I had a dream that I was being buried to my neck on the beach, and there was a bunch of lobsters coming to snap at my face. Do you think that’s some kind of premonition?”

“Could be,” she replied, trying to laugh.

Something about the dream actually did scare her. Maybe it was the idea of his being buried alive.

She felt nervous and hyper and jittery—on the verge of some kind of panic attack.

She sat forward and poured him a cup of water.