Page 175 of Severed Rivalry
Ayla: I can be therein an hour.
Me: Will you go let Eleanor out? It hasn’t been too long, but that would scratch one thing off my mental to-do list.
Ayla: Going now. Let me know what you need. Anything, Ci.
I slide my phone back in my pocket and pace until my footprints might become permanent.
“Mr. Murphy?” A nurse queries.
“Yes?”
“Can you come with me?”
At least it’s a nurse and not another officer. Or an attorney. Or an administrator.
“Cian.” My name bursts through my darkening thoughts.
Renée sits on a hospital bed, her right arm in a cast and sling. She has a bandage on her head, and her chin is marred with light bruising.
Her mom is going to kill me. I keep that thought inside because I’m already in enough shit right now. No need to bring more upon myself.
I move with purpose to the bed and fold my arms around Renée, careful with her small, bruised body. Her good arm wraps around my waist.
“You saved me,” she whispers. “Again.”
“Always.”
“Mr. Murphy, Renée has a slight concussion. We’re sending instructions home on how to watch for changes. She’ll require a check every hour for twenty-four hours. Please see your family physician or come back to the ER if you have any concerns. Prescriptions will be called in to the pharmacy on file in her chart. The cast comes off in six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” She acts as if that’s the worst part of this whole ordeal.
If that’s the case, I’m rolling with it.
“Six weeks. The bone needs to set. And at your age, we want to make sure it’s done correctly since you’re still growing.”
I can’t be sure, but I’d swear she grumbles one word under her breath. “Barely.”
The nurse then passes me a folded piece of paper.
UC Hospitals apologizes for the lack of clarity in our paperwork. Thank you for bringing to our attention the concerns for potentially predatory practices. We will review our policies immediately.
It’s signed by the head of the UC System.
Whatever Christian did or said, it was impactful.
“Can she go home?” I ask the nurse.
“She can. Come back if anything feels off though, okay?”
We both agree. We walk through the overly lit, way too institutional-smelling hospital, past admissions, and out the front door.
We’re at the truck when we both realize Renée can’t help herself in alone.
“Need help?”
“Yeah. The angle is all wrong.” She waves her casted arm around while pointing at the handle.
I give her a quick boost and she settles in, figuring out how to buckle in on her own. I round the tailgate, admiring the damage I did, and start the truck when she asks, “Where’s Mom?”
