Page 17 of Sparking Sara

“Yeah, well, maybe it fell out of the car in the accident. Anyway, I’m going to stop by a gallery that came up when I searched Sara’s name. Maybe they’ll know something.”

The elevator stops on the sixth floor and we get out. When we get to Sara’s room, the doctor is in with her. He sees us walk into the room and stops talking with the nurse.

“Is she okay?” Joelle asks.

“We still don’t know, but her ICP is coming down, so it looks like we won’t have to remove a portion of her skull.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Joelle says.

“It could be, but I don’t want to give you false hope. At this point, we’re merely at a crossroads of science, health, and faith. We’re taking care of the science part. And Sara is young and strong, so the health part is covered. That just leaves faith. So if you pray, or you know those who do, now might be a good time to rely on that.”

I back up and lean against the wall, saying a silent prayer for the woman I don’t even know. The woman whose chocolate brown eyes looking back at me in the mirror haunted my dreams last night.

My phone vibrates with a text.

Aspen: I just got off the phone with Bass. Are you really sitting vigil with an accident victim at the hospital?

Me: It’s not a big deal, Pen. It’s just until her family gets here.

Aspen: It sounds like a pretty big deal to me.

Me: If it were you, and you didn’t have anyone, wouldn’t you want someone there? Even if it was a stranger?

Aspen: Bass told me he saw you last night and that you were pretty messed up over the whole thing. Maybe it’s time to reach out to a counselor at FDNY.

I’m so tired of everyone telling me to see a goddamned shrink. Aspen brings it up every time I talk about work. Or our parents. So I try not to talk about either if I can help it, which doesn’t leave us with a whole hell of a lot to talk about when we’re together. Except baseball. We talk a lot about baseball.

And I suddenly realize my issues may have put some distance between us. Distance isn’t something twins are supposed to have.

Me: I’m fine.

Aspen: She’s not them, Den.

Me: I know that, Aspen.

Aspen: Do you?

I look over at Sara and then put my phone back in my pocket, not bothering to respond to Aspen’s question. Probably because I’m afraid of what the answer is.

Chapter Five

Yesterday, when Joelle visited Sara, she told me she left a message for Lydia. I suppose it’s possible that Lydia will know how to contact Oliver, but almost a day has passed without word from her, so I’m sticking with my original plan.

After three subway trains and a five-block walk, I’m staring into the windows of the art gallery I found on the Internet.

I enter the front door and look around at the paintings on the walls, hoping to find some other Sara Francis originals, but I don’t see any.

I hear footsteps on the concrete floor behind me. I turn around and see a tall, thin man wearing a pin-striped suit with a yellow scarf around his neck. He has an inviting smile on his face.

“Welcome,” he says. “How may I be of assistance? Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I’m looking for information on an artist,” I say. I get out my phone and show him the picture of Sara’s painting. “You’ve sold some of her paintings.”

He looks at my phone. “Ah, Sara Francis. That crazy bitch is one talented chica. Pardon my French. But I don’t sell her paintings. No gallery sells her paintings. She only works by commission, creating one-of-a-kind masterpieces for her clients.”

I look at him with drawn brows.

“You don’t look like you’re much into art,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe while taking in my FDNY shirt and jeans.

---