Page 39 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

I stayed silent, my heart heavy with this decision, but my determination unwavering. I couldn’t bear to look at Dr. Simmons, couldn’t bear to face the reality of what I was doing. I wanted him to leave, to give me space to wallow in my self-imposed exile from seeing the girl who reminded me of my failures.

It was for the best.

“Morning, Psycho,” someone said from the door—Ryder.

Dr. Simmons rolled his eyes. “We’ve talked about that name,” he muttered, but he wasn’t angry, and I guessed the Marine nickname was as much a part of him as Ryder calling me Navy. I’d never been so relieved to see Ryder so we could break up this shit, but I rolled again, in painful increments, to turn my back on both of them.

When the door shut, I heard the chair scrape, then Ryder started reading again, and I lost myself in righteous defense of having nothing to do with Annie.

It was for the best.

* * *

I didn’t know how many days I’d been in this freaking bed, but I guessed it had to be at least a week, maybe ten days, and when I watched Ryder leave after yet another session of him reading out loud and me ignoring it, I was done with being still. I had this restless urge to get up, and the feeling of being confined to that bed, the monotony of the white walls and the constant beeping of machines, was stifling, almost suffocating.

Not to mention, I had to get strong enough to rip that phone out of Ryder’s hands so I could pretend I wasn’t enjoying him reading the book.

Dr. Simmonds came back on a daily basis, updating me on Annie. Sometimes it was Lizzie who was working with Annie one to one. I listened to them talk, but I refused to see her. That was a dangerous slippery slope on the way to me messing everything up.

I suggested that I write some things down for her, he responded with some shit about my healing path.

I turned my back on him. End of story.

I craved a glimpse of the outside world, something to remind me that life was still happening, that there was something beyond these four walls, and I wasn’t going to get it sitting here like a freaking invalid.

I felt helpless and vulnerable, and I hated it when I was used to having control over my actions and decisions. This enforced stillness, this dependency on others for even the most basic needs, was driving me insane, and the warrior part of me, that inner voice telling me I could do anything, meant all I really wanted to do was prove to myself I was still capable, despite my injuries. Not to mention the nagging feeling I should be doing something, that resting was somehow a luxury I couldn’t afford while there was still so much to be done.

Then, there was that fucking guilt, acid inside me, devastating, and coupled with the weight of unfinished business. I eased to the side of the bed, my feet touching the floor. The icy cold of it beneath my warm toes reminded me I was alive. I needed that for now, to feel in control, no matter how small the first step might be.

I managed to get to the door, thankfully, not hooked up to drips or machines anymore, and opened the door with caution, checked the corridor left and right, noticed the security camera at the end of the hall, but decided that, fuck it, if someone saw me stumbling about, they’d come find me, and that was a problem for future me.

I headed down the hallway, my steps unsteady—still weak from the injury, and pain a constant companion—using the wall to hold me up, until I reached the end where it met in a T along a walkway that went around in a big circle.

Doc Jen had explained that I was in Maine, and when I stared out of the window, it was obvious with the rock formations, and the rolling ocean, and the chill of spring snow.

This was a blast-from-the-past mansion, the contrast between the old and the new was obvious. Grand and imposing inside, it might well have once been something amazing, but for now, it was clear that the place had seen better days.

While what I assumed was the medical wing had up-to-date everything, with fresh paint and security, out here on a gallery overlooking a big hall, the paint on the walls was peeling, revealing layers beneath, and the hardwood floors, though still impressive, bore the scuffs and scratches of time. I glanced at the ceiling, at the intricate moldings dulled by years of neglect, but it was obvious that sections had been restored or were in the process of being renovated. These areas—like the room I’d been in—were in stark contrast to the faded grandeur of the rest.

The sound of laughter pulled me to the railings of the galleried walkway, and I searched for the source of the noise, a man sitting at a large table spread with art supplies, kids milling around, maybe ten of them, and there was paint everywhere. The man had a large piece of white paper, and it seemed as if they were all making hand prints of something. I leaned over a little more and spotted Annie sitting at another table with a young woman who was helping her with a jigsaw, and my heart stopped. Annie’s hair was in bunches, and I recalled how much she would wriggle when James tried to do her hair, even at two, she’d been stubborn as anything. She glanced around her, and I stepped back in case she saw me, then, I leaned against the wall, my energy draining, watching the other kids paint. Lost in staring, I didn’t notice Jen approaching until she was right beside me. So much for my training.

Her voice, sharp and tinged with irritation, snapped me out of my thoughts. “What the hell are you doing out of bed, Lieutenant Fox?” Doc Jen’s tone was way past concerned and right on to angry. She stood with her arms crossed, frowning at me in frustration.

I straightened, feeling a twinge of guilt for causing her distress, and a lot of pain in my belly. “I just… needed to stretch my legs,” I replied, my voice unsteady, trying to justify my actions.

She wasn’t buying it. “You’re not in any condition to be wandering around,” she snapped. “You need to rest and heal. Get back in your room.”

“Doc—”

“Do I need to get someone?” I knew at once this had been a rhetorical question given the cameras and the panic button she’d just pressed in full view of me. I didn’t know how long we had, but I had questions.

“Who are they?” I asked as she tried and failed to peel me from the wall, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked down at the children and some of her anger subsided. “Victims of human trafficking. This place—Kingscliff—it’s like a halfway house for the ones we’ve managed to rescue. A safe space to start healing.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow, worse than any gunshot to the gut. Victims of human trafficking. The very thing I had fought against, the darkness I’d tried to shield Annie from. And here they were, children who had seen the worst of humanity, yet still found a way to laugh and play. At least, they were here, and I assume the twenty-one I’d managed to divert with Sanctuary’s help had also made it here.

But what about all the other ones I couldn’t stop—the ones Danvers had made secure before I even got there; the hundreds of kids that would be lost in the system?

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