Page 32 of Cruel Hearts

“I just wish I could have done more. Can’t say I’ve made much progress.” He blows out a breath. “Let’s go.”

We enter the lobby, and a light tinkling of classical music meets my ears. There are plants everywhere, and sunlight glimmers down through large skylights. An enormous reception desk sits directly in front of the doors. No sneaking around this place without being seen.

Denton’s right. Quiet Meadows is not a facility where people come and go as they please.

Security guards are everywhere—men as big as football players dressed in casual khaki pants and dress shirts, weapons bulging beneath finely-cut blazers—and a chill runs down my spine. They remind me of Hector. I wonder if there’s one stationed outside Zarah’s room.

My heart sinks. I think we might end up having to bust her out of here. She definitely doesn’t belong in this place. Unless watching Ash take me broke something inside her mind. In which case, maybe seeing that I’m okay still won’t be enough.

Denton greets the receptionist, and I paste a smile onto my face.

I’m having a difficult time adjusting to the outside world and away from the skyscraper Ash turned into my prison. He was very careful to keep me hidden, revealing my identity to only a specifically chosen number of his friends and associates, and now that I’m free, colors and feelings and experiences swirl around me like a kaleidoscope. My senses are easily overwhelmed and the recent threats on my life have frayed my nerves to the point I crave seclusion, but I won’t get anywhere curled into a ball with a pillow over my head. I need to be stronger than that, and I try to find comfort in the soft music drifting from hidden speakers and Denton’s solid presence.

He puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side, and I attempt to act natural, meeting the hard eyes of a grumpy nurse. “And this is my daughter, S—”

“Stephanie,” I cut in before my real name slips out of Denton’s mouth. I hold out my hand and she reluctantly reciprocates, squeezing my fingers for a second and then letting go. “We’re excited to see the facility,” I say brightly as Denton sighs. “We’ve heard wonderful things about this place.”

She gestures to a young woman wearing a conservative dress and low heels and asks her to lead us to a suite of administrative offices. We walk behind her, and I keep my eyes and ears open. The survival instincts I developed in foster care came back while I was trapped at Black Enterprises. I quickly learned to listen, observe, and gauge people’s moods. You can find out a lot about your surroundings and the people in it if you pay attention.

A spacious and airy office is located at the end of a wide hallway, and a middle-aged woman wearing a ghastly peach business suit sits behind a huge desk typing on a computer. A gold name plaque positioned at the edge of her desk says her name is Iona Belsely. Her hair is permed into tight curls close to her head, and her lipstick is too bright for her complexion. She smiles at us, looking Denton up and down, and waves to two chairs in a surprisingly friendly invitation to sit. She wastes half an hour telling us about the benefits and amenities of the facility. Around-the-clock security is one, and I grit my teeth.

We’re never going to see Zarah.

“We’d like a tour, if that’s possible,” Denton says, flashing her a gleaming smile and running a hand through his hair, his watch glinting. It might have turned grey, but he doesn’t have a receding hairline like a lot of men his age. Under the pallor, he could still be an attractive man.

Charmed, the dumpy woman titters. Her gaze keeps landing on the hand he has resting on a propped-up knee. He’s not wearing a wedding band.

We file out of the sunny office, and she forgets all about me as I trail behind them. I don’t mind. Let Denton pick up the slack. Maybe he’ll get a date out of this. She must be paid all right running a place of this size and reputation.

Bits of their conversation drift to me, and he says something about dementia and running off.

Iona leads us down a wing that looks more like a hospital, and I don’t see any security. Deliberately slowing, I lag, and casually, I try to open a door, but it’s locked. If patients are prone to wandering off, that seems practical, but apprehension wiggles in my belly.

We walk to the rear of the building where the glass doors open into a huge garden.

I tamp down a groan of frustration. We’ve been here for over an hour and we haven’t learned a damned thing. Denton senses my annoyance and rubs my arm. I start to step away, but I forgot he’s supposed to be my father and suck in a deep breath to calm down. I scramble to think of a way to figure out where Zarah is, but Denton reads my mind.

Humor twinkles in his eyes and he leans toward her and murmurs, “I’ve heard there’s a wing where the famous people are.”

Iona blushes. “We do have some well-known clients with us, and their rooms are located in a private wing. They aren’t all famous, but it is costly to stay on that side of the building. I assumed you would be interested in the more affordable options.”

Denton chuckles. “Now, honey, looks can be deceiving.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and smiles.

She simpers in apology. “Of course. I am so sorry. If you’re looking into those kinds of accommodations, follow me. We do have two suites available, and they’re ready for residents.”

“Sounds good.”

Behind her back, Denton eyes meet mine.

This is where Zarah will be staying. The only question now is how we can see her. No doubt Zane and Ash will have her locked away, lockeddown, but even if we can get to her, we don’t have any information that says she’ll be coherent enough to recognize me, much less talk to me.

The woman giggles at something Denton says, and it’s not a very becoming sound. She starts to list the famous people who are treated here, quite proud of her facility and its reputation. I admit the place is beautiful, but it should be for as much as families need to pay just to step foot inside the door.

Denton is doing his job, and I do mine. He plays a good ol’ boy, wanting to do right by his mama no matter the cost. It gives me time to look—she’s mesmerized and doesn’t see anything but his face. She wouldn’t have had a snowball’s chance in hell if she’d met him five years ago. She would have offered us Zarah’s room number on a silver platter, all Richard Denton would have needed to do was crook his finger.

Discreetly, I start looking for clues on the doors or walls that could possibly indicate who occupies each room. Suddenly, Iona stops in front of a door that has a gorgeous flowered wreath hanging from a gold hook and lowers her voice. “This is Zarah Maddox’s suite. She’s our youngest patient. Tragic, what happened to her.”

The wooden door made to look like a house’s front door doesn’t offer any information. She doesn’t have a chart like some of the others, and her room’s protected by a keypad keeping anyone who doesn’t belong out.

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