Page 36 of Unspoken

A shaky laugh escapes me. "I don't feel very strong."

"You are," he insists. "And you're not alone. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

CHAPTER 13

LOGAN

On my day off, I stand in the hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as I face my mother's oncologist, Dr. Patel. His expression is grim but his eyes are filled with sympathy. Whatever sympathy he can spare anyway.

"I'm afraid the chemotherapy isn't working as well as we had hoped, Logan," he says, his voice kind-hearted yet firm. "The cancer is spreading again and the surgery will not do her any good at this point."

His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I swallow hard, my throat tight. "What...what are our options?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady. Deep down I know it. I know there are no options but I can’t hear it yet. I simply refuse.

Dr. Patel sighs. "I think it's time to start focusing on her comfort and quality of life. The aggressive treatment is taking a heavy toll. I’d suggest continuing chemo, of course, which could prolong the inevitable, give her a few more months, but ultimately the decision is yours."

Panic rises in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. I can't lose her. Not now. "There must be something else we can try.Experimental treatments, clinical trials..." My words come out in a desperate rush.

"Logan..." Dr. Patel begins, but I cut him off.

"I have money. I'll pay whatever it takes. I know those trials are expensive. Not an issue for me. I have money, Doc." The phrase tastes bitter on my tongue. Money I earned working for men I once swore to put behind bars. But I'd give every last dime if it meant saving my mother.

Dr. Patel places a hand on my shoulder. His touch is meant to comfort but I feel none of it. "I'll look into it, but I want you to be prepared. It may be time to start making arrangements."

Arrangements.

The word echoes in my mind, cold and final. I nod numbly, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

"Take some time with her," Dr. Patel says softly. "I'll be back to check on her later." He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before walking away, his footsteps like thunder in the quiet hallway.

I stand there for a long moment, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I clench my fists, anger and helplessness warring within me. I should have been there for her more. I should have found a way to get her better treatment sooner.

But I failed her, just like I failed my father. And now, all the money and connections in the world might not be enough to keep her with me.

The gloom of the bar immediately soothes my eyes and is a welcome respite from the sterile glare of the hospital. I slip onto a stool, the worn leather creaking beneath me. The clinking ofglasses and the low murmur of conversations wrap around me like a familiar blanket, muffling the chaos in my mind.

I shouldn’t be here. I’m not a cop anymore and this place is crawling with cops. It’s the bar we used to come to to celebrate things or to drown our sorrows. I guess I ended up here out of habit.

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, my voice rough.

As he slides the glass toward me, I stare into the amber depth, searching for answers that refuse to come. My mother's gaunt face swims before my eyes, her once vibrant smile now a pale shadow of itself.

I down the whiskey in one gulp, relishing the burn over my throat. It's a futile attempt to numb the pain, but I'll take what I can get. God knows I need a break.

"Another," I say, tapping the empty glass on the scarred wooden bar.

Just as the bartender sets down my refill, the door swings open, letting in a gust of hot air and a noisy group of cops. My muscles tense, every instinct screaming at me to leave before they notice me, before shame and embarrassment take over reason.

But it's too late. A pair of familiar brown eyes locks on me. Curtis.

He stares at me for a second, surprise flickering across his face before it's replaced by a cunning smile. He says something to his buddies and then saunters over. His movements are relaxed but his eyes remain sharp.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, sliding onto the stool next to me without waiting for an invitation. "If it isn't the legendary Logan McKenna."

I grip my glass tighter. "Curtis," I acknowledge, my voice flat but polite. "What’s going on?"

Curtis chuckles. "Just came for a drink with the boys. Had a solid win this week. Arrested a couple of big shots working for that madman Toro. One may crack. But I have to say, I'm surprised to see you. Thought you'd be too busy running errands for Vlad Solovey."

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