Page 127 of Necessary Cruelty

When I move to stride toward the double doors, the nurse stops me with a hand on my chest.

“She doesn’t want to see you.” She sounds apologetic, but her gaze is resolute. “This kind of thing happens sometimes, people go into shock. We’ll be keeping her for a couple of days, so you might want to come back.”

“I’m her husband,” I snap.

“Patients always have the right to refuse visitors, including family.” The nurse backs away, keeping her gaze on me like she thinks I might dive past her. “Your wife is on the third floor. You can try calling the unit tomorrow.”

She turns on her heel and strides away before I have a chance to argue anymore with her.

Iain sidles up next to me “Third floor is the psych unit. It’s where they put the people who try to off themselves.”

I don’t bother to ask him how he knows that.

Under other circumstances, I would have barreled after that nurse like a steamroller and forced the staff to allow me in to see Zaya or suffer the consequences.

Except I know I’ve finally found a situation I can’t bully my way through. Even if I forced my way into to her room and insist she talk to me, I won’t be able to force my way into her heart. And that is exactly what I plan to do, no matter how long it takes.

I’m going to make this right, even if it kills us both.

* * *

It’samazing what you can do when money is no object.

I only have to make two phone calls, one to a private investigator and another to the bank for a wire transfer, to get a last known address.

The drive to LAX is completely silent, because the rush of my own thoughts is enough of a distraction at the moment. My anachronistic love for girl power pop songs is legendary, but I need to be alone with the maelstrom inside my own head.

This isn’t a problem that Taylor Swift can fix.

But two hours of total silence can do a lot to keep things in perspective.

The gate agent raises an eyebrow when I buy a ticket for the next flight to Portland without so much as a carry-on bag. It probably doesn’t help that I’m still dressed in my tuxedo from the wedding, although only the wrinkled pants and stained shirt are left, I realize. My uselessly expensive suit jacket disappeared somewhere.

Probably the hospital waiting room, if I had to guess.

The agent’s gaze rests on the loosened bowtie hanging around my neck for a beat too long, but she still sells me the ticket. And she doesn’t alert the TSA, because I make it through security without any problems.

The wait isn’t long until boarding, but I spend the next hour pacing up and down past the same gift shop. If I actually stop to think about what I’m doing, then I might realize what a bad idea this is.

Zaya and I will never have a future if we can’t come to terms with the past.

Which is why I’m going to find her piece of shit mother.

I’m the first one on the plane, having paid three times the normal rate for a first class ticket so I could jump off as soon as we landed without waiting for the rest of the herd.

Why is it that people only seem to remember they have luggage in the overhead bin when the aisle clears in front of them?

The stewardess offers me a beverage before takeoff, but I wave her away, practically vibrating in my seat. A businessman in a tailored suit sits in the seat next to me. He tries to strike up a conversation, but my glare is enough to shut him up.

If I open my mouth again, it will only be a scream of rage and frustration that comes out.

I’ve never been to Portland, not that I plan to see any of it. This isn’t a pleasure trip, after all. But it’s only after the plane lands, as I walk out of the airport and end up under overcast skies even grayer than my mood, that it really hits home for me what I’m doing.

I don’t expect Zaya to thank me for this, definitely not at first and maybe not ever. But it needs to be done. Without knowing what drove her mother to do what she did, Zaya will always wonder if she is walking down the same path toward inevitable destruction. That question — why? — will continue to hang over everything until we get an answer.

We both need to know why.

I plug the address I got from the PI into my phone. The five-minute wait for my Uber feels like at least that many hours. I practically sprint out from under the awning to get to the car. The sky opens as I step out onto the curb, drenching me in the time it takes to climb into the backseat.

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