Page 125 of Mangled Memory
“I’m Ayla Murphy Barone.” My voice carries an authority I will never get used to.
“Mrs. Barone, your mother is in room 3112. Through these double doors, go to the end of the hall and turn right. Go to the end of that hall and there’s an elevator bank that will take you to the third-floor breezeway. Take that to the end and they’ll buzz you in there.”
I repeat it in my head. End of the hall, turn right. End of that hall, elevators, breezeway to the end. Okay.
We move for the double doors and the clack of an electric lock unbolts and we begin the trek.
“Any idea what we should expect?” I ask and reach for my phone that won’t stop buzzing.
The group chat is popping off.
Cian: En route. Any news yet?
Liam: Not that I’ve heard. I just arrived.
Me: We’re downstairs. Where are you?
Liam: Stuck at security. What the fuck.
“Where’s security?” I pause my steps and the men flanking me do the same.
Christian peers over my head and silently communicates with Fitz in a language I don’t speak. He turns and walks back towhere we came from, grabbing his phone. “Liam,” he starts as the Army Ranger to my right, grabs my elbow and turns me forward.
“Mrs. Barone.”
We make our way to the elevators after making the right.
“Do you ever sleep, Fitz?”
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out.
Christian: Cian, room 3112. Show ID at security and you’ll be let in.
Cian: Thanks
Me: Stop texting and driving.
We step inside the elevator, and I stare at the bars on my phone. I’ve lost signal.
“I’m assuming that was a rhetorical question.”
“Sort of.”
“You get used to it.”
“That’s not something I want to get used to.”
We exit onto the breezeway and find another set of double doors, my phone beginning its buzzing again. I press the security button and a disembodied voice comes after the squawking of the system. “May I help you?”
“Ayla Murphy Barone here for Janie Murphy.”
The line clicks and there’s a metal clank telling me the magnet has been disengaged. The doors part, one in and one out as we enter the overly circular area bustling with movement.
“Janie Murphy? 3112?” I ask tapping the desk with my fingers.
The nurse nods toward the corner. “She’s in testing but Mr. Murphy is in there.” I hurry that way, Fitz on my heels, his long strides eating up the distance.
I knock and enter without waiting for a reply. Dad sits alone, overflowing the pleather chair, scrolling his phone. He looks up and his face hardens when Fitz steps in behind me. He rises from his chair, extending a meaty finger our way.
