Page 57 of Bad Blood

I’m surprised when the tracker picks her up in the research center of St. Peter’s Hospital. That’s where Mom worked, although her charity was on Long Island.

The hospital was where it all began.

What is Billie doing there?

She never mentioned working there, but I suppose she wouldn’t.

There’s a possibility she knows Mom worked there. That’s probably why she didn’t say anything.

I check the hospital site on my computer and look at the visitor’s log on reception. It shows Billie is one of the new volunteers for the center. She checked in at nine this morning and will be there until one. That’s in an hour.

If I hurry, I can get there by one.

Wait… what?

Am I serious? I’m going to go there and see her on a day outside our arrangement?

I shouldn’t do that. It would be a bad idea.

Why not, though? What would be the harm in seeing her?

I can do that if I want to. Rules are meant to be fucking broken. What’s the point in being the rebel if you can’t do that?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I leave the house and head to the hospital.

When I get there, the staff look happy to see me and allow me inside when I tell them I’m there to see someone. I used to meet Mom for lunch sometimes and if she was ever working on a weekend, I’d pick her up and we’d go to dinner after work.

No one knows that side of me. Only she did. She was the only person worth showing it to.

The custodian directs me to Billie. When I find her reading a story to a group of kids who look like they’ve been receiving chemo, I stop in my tracks and hang back so I can watch her.

She smiles at them and I’m reminded of the way my mother used to be with her patients. Especially the ones like those I’m observing who were on the clinical trials. Those who’d gone past hoping and had to rely on miracles.

There are so many similarities between this girl and my mother—each pushing my cold heart to open and cast aside the darkness threatening to swallow me whole.

Billie finishes up the story and the children clap.

She lifts her head to look at the clock and that’s when she spots me.

Our eyes lock and I can see the fear riddling her mind.

Quickly, she dismisses the children and walks over to me with a look of uncertainty on her face.

“Hi,” she says, bringing her hands together. “You’re here.”

“You are, too. Didn’t know you were working here.”

Nervousness returns to her eyes. “I started last week. I didn’t exactly want to talk about it too much because I’m not sticking around and…”

Her voice trails off and I know why.

“My mother used to work here.”

“Yeah. I’m mindful when talking about your mother. I don’t think I have any right to mention her.”

Weeks ago, I might have felt the same way. I don’t now. “It’s okay to talk about her. I think if she were alive, she might be extremely fascinated with you.”

“Really?”

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