Page 4 of Papers Don't Lie

He grabs me by my arm to steady me, and I hold on to him, still under the effect of the meds. That, or Mr. Graves hit me too hard.

“What car does he have?” I ask, groaning as we take a step toward the wheelchair.

The man peers at me as if I’m some kind of anomaly, but I snub it and wait for him to answer while he lowers me onto the chair.

“Mercedes E-Class.“

My nose scrunches. “The latest one?”

Mr. Stone hesitates, scrutinizing me and most likely wondering why the hell I’m asking him what car his boss has. Understandable.

“Yes…”

No, it’s not the meds. It’s the latest Mercedes E-Class he hit me with.

At least I was hit with style.

He walks behind me, hiding his internal reaction, and starts pushing the wheelchair toward the door.

“Wait, can’t a nurse do this?” I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder.

The man clicks his tongue on his teeth, continuing to guide me outside of the corridor. “No,” he simply says.

“May I ask why?”

His eyes meet mine for a mere moment. “You just did.”

I huff at his answer—already overused, if you ask me—and place my palms in my lap. “You’ve done your job, whatever that is, so you can leave now.”

We pass by a few nurses and assistants at the reception, all of them smiling at Mr. Stone or waving goodbye. All they get in return is a curt nod.

So no one will stop him from taking me, huh?

“I take direct orders from Mr. Graves and him only.”

Right. That’s a way to sayyou don’t tell me what to do.

“Did those orders include giving me a ride in the wheelchair?” I ask, but he acts like he didn’t hear, completely changing the subject.

“Where to?” Mr. Stone places himself in front of me as soon as we get in front of his car, as luxurious as his boss’s. At least he treats his employees well.

A part of me wants to sayhome, just like those actors in movies do and the driver magically knows where to take them, but I decide against it. I have a feeling he wouldn’t laugh at my joke, and a joke without laughter is like milk without cereal—completely tasteless.

My shoulders raise in a shrug. “I don’t know,” I admit, peeling off the acrylic on my nails. The fact that I ran becomes real, and even if there’s a small voice in the back of my head whispering I still have time to go back with no consequences, I refuse to do it. When I left with burning feet, I made a choice, and no matter what, I have to keep my ground. There’s no way back.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Like to close friends or relatives?” he questions, and I give him a mocking smirk.

“I’ll grab an Uber,” I tell him, watching the dark sky above us.

“Do you have money to take an Uber?” He lifts, barely, a brow.

“Yes?” I say, a shaky smile forming on my lips.

Mr. Stone stays silent for a while, ambulance sirens sounding close and covering the quietness. He takes a deep breath before opening the back door to his car. With no other questions, he helps me get in.

“I need to make a quick call, Ms. Esmeray. Make yourself comfortable.” Mr. Stone gives me one of his mechanical nods before closing the door after him and fishing up his phone from the pocket of his coat.

My eyes fix on his back. How the hell does he know my name?

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