Page 117 of False God

Comforting other people has never been my strong suit. I was raised to never show weakness, so I never had much exposure to sentimentality.

I probably would have made a terrible doctor.

You would’ve been a really good doctor.Lili’s voice sneaks into my head without warning, a tumble of memories from the past couple of days following close behind.

She’s probably pissed at me, as she should be.

Sneaking out of her bed in the middle of the night to answer Elsie’s call, then leaving a note that I had to return to Londonbecause of business for everyone to find—both decisions I could categorize as mistakes.

I was overwhelmed. With worry about Gran—and panic about Lili.

She was supposed to be sex. A beautiful distraction from the fifty-pound weight stuck on my shoulders.

I didn’t want to care about her. Didn’t think I was capable of it, honestly. My father might have loved Blythe unreservedly—and shown affection toward me in certain ways—yet I never witnessed him express warmth toward anyone who wasn’t a blood relation. If he ever loved my mother, it didn’t last long.

But the weight on my shoulders has been joined by a brick in my stomach as I think about how I left Lili lying in bed. Left a hastily scribbled note on the counter that didn’t even address her directly.

Does she hate me for it?

Worse, does she not care at all?

I’m exhausted. Physically since Lili and I didn’t get back to Chloe’s until almost two a.m. and Elsie called around four. Mentally and emotionally, too, as I worry about Granny’s health and everything else challenging my family right now.

Blythe and I finish picking at our lunch, then head back upstairs. Granny still isn’t awake, but Blythe sits with her while I receive an update from one of her doctors.

They’ve determined Granny had an ischemic stroke. They did a CT scan when she arrived and have administered medication to restore circulation, which she seems to be responding to, but they’re continuing to monitor her while awaiting test results.

If Elsie hadn’t checked on her in the middle of the night, she’d probably be gone.

I thank the doctor, then return to Granny’s room.

She’s awake now.

“The nurse said her vitals look good,” Blythe tells me. Her face is still drawn, but there’s a spark of life there. A little color. “She said Granny should try to get more rest.”

I squeeze Blythe’s shoulder, then lean down to kiss Granny’s wrinkled forehead. I’m so used to seeing her with curled hair and a matching skirt and jacket. Linen this time of year. She looks so tiny in the standard-issued gown and mechanized bed.

“It’s good to see you, Granny.”

“I don’t need to rest, Charles,” she says, impertinent as ever. “I need you to get me out of here.”

“Try to close your eyes for a little bit,” I reply. “Relaxing will get you out of here sooner. We’ll wait out?—”

“There’s no reason to sit somewhere else when there’s plenty of space in here.”

She’s scared, I realize. She’s scared, and she wants us to stay with her.

“All right.” I pull up a chair alongside the hospital bed, opposite Blythe.

“I’m going to use the loo,” she tells me and Gran, then disappears into the hallway.

“Probably off to plan her next trip now that she knows there’s no funeral to attend.”

I sigh. “Gran …”

I deliberate on telling her that Blythe knows the truth and is dealing with that, but decide now isn’t the moment. It’ll upset her, knowing Blythe sees Papa differently, and that’s not what she needs right now.

“How did it go in Saint-Tropez?” Granny asks.

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