Page 57 of Crossfire

He took a long time to answer, butcome on. Money. Cash.

“I might be able to do that,” he finally said.

Yes.

“Provided Ivy signs a consent form.”

No.

“The payment needs to be anonymous, and it needs to show on the invoice as a discount.”

Everett stopped grooming his pet.

“Ivy is a proud woman,” I explained. “She won’t allow me to pay the bill on her behalf.”

Everett’s attention swept to two plaques hanging on his wall. A bronze plate was engraved with his name beneath the title,Administrator of the Year. For two years running, but not last year. Last year had no such award for him, and here we were, late in the fall, the year closing in on him.

Surely, financials were a factor in winning that award.

“I can tell you the balance,” Everett said.

I cocked my head. “Do I strike you as the type of man who would blindly hand over money with no documentation? Give me a statement—again, redact sensitive information—and the money will be in the account by the end of the day.”

His lips thinned. What a little conundrum this guy was in.

“I can probably give you a statement balance only,” Everett finally agreed.

“With the patient’s name on it,” I said. “My wire will be directed to pay her bill, no one else’s.”

Everett looked at his computer screen. “I’ll have to run this past my boss.”

Damn it.

“I think she’ll be okay with it, but I need to check. Leave me your information, and if she approves, I’ll send it to you by the end of the day.”

At least the tone of his voice suggested this was just a formality.

Which meant, within a few hours, I should finally have Ivy’s last name.

25

IVY

As I stepped into Grams’s apartment within the assisted living facility, a warm smile spread across my face. The living room was a cozy enclave with a well-worn sofa and recliner that sat by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the window. Like usual, I found my grandmother there, her thin frame seeming smaller than ever against the plush cushions.

“Grams,” I called out.

Her brown eyes, though dulled by age, sparkled with joy at the sight of me.

“Ivy, my dear,” she replied, her thin lips curling into a lopsided grin—a remnant of the stroke that had left its mark on her. “What a wonderful surprise to see you today.”

I took a moment to appreciate the details that made Grams who she was—her short white hair that revealed her scalp when the light hit it just right, her frail frame that seemed to shrink a little more each year, and the peppering of age spots and freckles that adorned her pale arms, each one a story waiting to be told. And while her right side was still sluggish from the lingering shadow of her stroke, she carried herself with a certain resilience—a testament to her enduring spirit in the face of everything she’d been through.

Leaning down to give her a gentle hug, I drew in the lilac scent of her favorite perfume. The familiar aroma enveloped me, offering comfort and nostalgia.

I settled onto the sofa beside her, the fabric soft beneath my hands, worn from years of love and use.

“I wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing.” Half true. Also true? I’d been on a romantic walk—so blinded with damn hearts over my eyes that I hadn’t realized I’d ambled to her assisted living facility.

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