Trust Me, I'm Trouble (30 page)

As soon as I am capable of speech, I ask, “Where is she? Where is she?”

My rescuer, a bedraggled-looking woman in a waterlogged business suit, points down the dock to where an equally waterlogged Sam is performing CPR on Dani.

I drag myself to where Dani is lying like death on the cement.

“Stay back,” Sam says between rescue breaths.

But I don’t. I can’t. I curl up next to her as Sam continues CPR. I can’t remember the words she said to me. I’m sure I’ll mangle them beyond recognition, because I don’t know a scrap of Ukrainian. I’m going to try anyway. Anything to keep her here with me.

“Hoўda, hoўda-hoў, nichenќa….
Don’t leave me. Please, Dani. Dani, Dani, Dani.
Hoўda, hoўda-hoў, nichenќa….
”

Sam and I settle into a rhythm. Over and over. Breathe, breathe, don’t leave me, compress, please, compress, Dani, Dani, compress,
Hoўda, hoўda-hoў, nichenќa,
breathe.

The EMTs arrive in a rush of movement at odds with the slow motion inside the bubble of space around me and Dani. I lose track of Sam. There is only me and her. Even when the EMTs move her to a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, I don’t let go of her hand. No one protests as I climb in with her. Or maybe they do and I don’t notice. Where she goes, I go.

The ride to the hospital exists in a temporal vacuum. The EMTs work on her, following protocols that have no meaning to me. The only thing I can do is stroke her hair and will her to wake up.

When we arrive at the hospital, I pace next to the stretcher through the aseptic halls to a pair of double doors. Then the nurses intercede. It takes three of them to break my grip on Dani and block me from mindlessly following her into the back.

One of the nurses stays with me. He’s trying to talk to me, but I ignore him. There’s nothing he can say that will change the fact that Dani is probably going to die. It’s Tyler all over again. What have I done?

Sam bursts through the emergency-room doors a few minutes later. “What’s going on?” he asks the nurse standing next to me.

I don’t pay attention to the nurse’s response, but I see Sam nod as he takes my hand. He leads me to a couple of chairs in the waiting area. My vision goes dark around the edges again, and I can’t seem to get enough oxygen. I sink into a chair and force myself to take deeper, slower breaths. Sam squeezes my hand.

“It’s not your fault,” Sam says. “Don’t think for a second it’s your fault.”

“It was a hit meant for me. How is it not my fault?”

“Whoever was behind the wheel of the semi, it’s his fault. You can’t make him pay if you’re too busy blaming yourself.”

My breath calms, comes easier. I no longer have to remind myself to exhale. As usual, Sam knows exactly what to say to make me see reason. I get up and walk to the window, then back again. Sam watches from his chair, his expression wrecked. He’s still wet, but then so am I. I turn and walk back to the window. I can’t hold still. I can’t, or I’ll crumble.

Angela comes striding through the door. She spots us and makes a beeline for me. She throws her arms around me. “Oh, thank god,” she says, squeezing me tight. She pulls back and swings a tote bag from her shoulder. “I brought you dry clothes.” She hands me the tote bag, and I look at it blankly.

She catches on to my disoriented state and leads me to the bathroom herself. I’m not sure how she finds it. It’s down a far hall, and she works at Mercy. We’re at Northwestern.

“Can you change by yourself?” she asks.

I nod and drop the bag. I make it to a toilet stall just in time to vomit. Angela grabs my tangled hair to hold it back. Her touch is soothing, and I shudder under it. She whispers to me in Spanish, and I’m profoundly grateful that I don’t understand what she’s saying.

Once I feel steadier, I clean myself up and change clothes. She hovers near me but doesn’t interfere, doesn’t demand anything. When I’m ready, she loops her arm around my shoulders and guides me back to the god-awful waiting area.

Sam leaps up when we return. He’s not alone, though. Ralph is with him.

“I’m so sorry,
jang mi.
I would’ve prevented it if I could. I will take over as bodyguard until yours is back on her feet.”

The concern on his face sends me over the edge. I collapse into the nearest chair and sob, covering my face with my hands. Sam rushes over and kneels in front of me.

“What can I do?” he says.

“Nothing.”

He takes my hands so I’ll look at him. “There must be something.”

I shake my head, fighting to regain control. The last thing Dani needs is for me to freak out right now.

About twenty minutes later, the buzzer that the front desk gave us in exchange for our paperwork starts buzzing. With Ralph in tow, Angela and I meet the doctor in an alcove off the waiting area reserved for doctor–family member interactions. He looks capable and experienced and grave. Grave isn’t good.

He starts to ask the obligatory family question, but I cut him off. “We’re the only family she has,” I say.

He nods and lets it go. “We managed to stabilize her. She’s breathing on her own, but it took both endotracheal intubation and positive end-expiratory pressure.” He goes on to talk about maintaining adequate oxygenation, shifting interstitial pulmonary fluid, and increasing lung volume. All of which sounds vaguely positive. It’s when he mentions respiratory failure that I feel the freak-out starting to come back.

“So what does that mean? Is she going to…”

“Her chances for full recovery would be good if water aspiration were her only medical issue. But she’s also experienced some amount of cranial trauma, and I’m concerned that she hasn’t regained consciousness yet. Head injuries are notoriously unpredictable. She could wake up and be fine.” He hesitates before continuing. “But it’s also possible she may never wake up.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach, and if I had anything left to throw up, I’d do it.

“What about brain damage?” Angela asks. God, I hadn’t even thought of that.

“There’s no way for us to know until she’s conscious.”

“Can I see her?” I ask, my voice like sandpaper.

“I’m afraid not. We’ve moved her to the ICU for now, but she won’t be strong enough for visitors until the morning, if then. You can call the nurses’ desk tomorrow to find out if you can visit.”

I nod, my eyes burning. Angela squeezes my hand, and then peppers the doctor with additional questions. The doctor’s answers are mostly vague and unsatisfactory. He doesn’t know much more than we do. But he says that Dani’s youth and strong constitution are compelling factors in her favor. Thanks, doc.

The doctor’s phone beeps, and he checks the message. “I have to go. But the nurses will know Ms. Ivanov’s status, if you want to check in. If her condition changes, someone will call the contact number listed on her medical chart.” Which happens to be Mike’s, because my phone is at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Angela thanks the doctor, but I’m too lost in a fog of anxiety and self-loathing to remember my manners. I did this. Sam’s right—I have to get the assassin behind the wheel and make him pay. But Sam’s also wrong. It is my fault. Because, deep down, I knew this would happen. That the bullet with my name on it would hit her instead of me. But I never wanted that. If she was going to fall protecting me, then I should have fallen, too. Why am I still here?

And then suddenly I get it. Spade is too good to have missed me by accident. He
meant
to take Dani out of the picture first. He’s probably taking out my protectors one by one, in order of threat level. Which means Mike is next on his list. My guts are in knots, but I have to do something.

“Angela,” I say, taking her hand. “Dani said there’s a safe house. I think you should go. Make Mike go, if you can. But go now. Before—” I cut myself off, closing my eyes and lips until I regain control.

“Julep,” Angela says. I open my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Mike.” She looks like she wants to say more but is dangerously close to tears herself.

I want to insist, I want to trick her into it, but I’m not that strong a person. Instead I nod, fear of them staying washing over me even as fear of being abandoned recedes. I know that eventually I will have to face my enemies alone. It’s the only way I can flush them out, and the only way I’ll be able to live with myself afterward. But for now, it’s enough that I can lean into Angela’s soft hug and feel
home.

• • •

Two hours later, I’m still at the hospital. Murphy and Bryn have come and gone, bringing Sam a change of clothes. Angela offered to beg off work and stay with me, but I said I’d be okay if she went. Ralph sticks around, showing no signs of leaving any time soon. Sam is still here as well, playing with his phone in a far-off section of the waiting room. One of the nurses comes over to kick me out of the alcove, but I’m leaving it anyway. I settle in the chair next to Sam’s. He doesn’t look up. I don’t say anything. We sit like that for another fifteen minutes, each of us steeped in our own thoughts.

“I don’t know what to say,” I say.

“Then don’t say anything. We’ve never needed words before.”

I slide down in my seat. “You saved her life. Thank you,” I say.

He smiles sardonically. “Don’t thank me. It’s weird.”

And just that one simple thing, him reminding me of what we used to have, destroys the paper-thin protective layer I’d erected between myself and my emotional overload. I start weeping again.

Sam puts his arm around me and draws me close. “What can I do?” he asks for the second time this hospital visit.

It takes me a while to answer. “I need to see her.”

Sam leaves without another word. When he returns, he waves me over to the door leading to the ICU. I follow him to the nearest supply closet, where he outfits me in scrubs, clipping a badge he’d clearly stolen from a nurse to the pocket.

“It won’t fool them for long,” he says. “When you get in there, remember to wash your hands. It’s the ICU, not a wellness clinic.”

I try to smile at him, but in my current state, it probably looks more like a grimace.

He hands me his burner phone. “Just in case,” he says. He checks to make sure the hall is clear before leaving. I leave a few minutes later and walk briskly through the ICU hallway, checking the sliding glass doors for patient names. Two Smiths and a Velasquez later, I find her. Ivanov.

I walk into her room, sliding the door closed behind me. I pull the curtain to block us from view. With luck, the other nurses will think a doctor’s with her, and vice versa. I use the hand-sanitizer dispenser at the head of Dani’s bed, remembering Sam’s warning.

The tubes crawling out of her pallid skin into machines that beep and flash make her look like an extra from one of Sam’s sci-fi movies. Her tattoos stand out in stark relief, but even they seem weakened somehow, as if Dani’s life force is what gave them strength. I trace the manacles on her wrist with my finger.

Tears slide down my cheeks, silent this time.
I did this.

“I’m so sorry, Dani,” I say, my voice tiny.

The cut along her jaw has been taped closed with Steri-Strips. Her left arm is red and purple from where the door of the Chevelle dented on impact, pinning it to her side. I don’t see evidence of a head injury, but I’m sure it hurts like a bitch.

I crawl onto her bed, careful not to jostle her or knock any of the tubes or wires. I tuck my hair behind my ears and lay down along her right side. I stroke her cheek, her neck. I rest my hand over her heart, clinging to the ridiculous idea that my touching it will magically help her heal.

“Please, Dani. Wake up. I know there’s nothing here for you really. I know Olena and the others are waiting for you, and that I’m not much compared with that. But please, please. It’s not your time yet. They will wait for you. Please come back.”

The only answer I get is the beeping of the machines. She doesn’t move, much less wake. So I try a different tack.

“I’m still in a lot of trouble. All sorts of people are trying to kill me. You hate that.”

Still nothing, but the gentle teasing makes me feel a little less like I’m bleeding internally. I snuggle in closer, inhaling the sick, aseptic smell of hospitals. She doesn’t smell like Dani at all, but that doesn’t stop me from kissing her ear, her temple, her nose. Then I burrow into the crook between her jaw and shoulder, finally giving in to exhaustion.

An indeterminate amount of time later, I’m jarred awake by Sam’s burner phone buzzing under me. I shake off the heavy fog, trying to remember where I am. Then I remember and I’m confused, thinking a nurse or doctor has woken me and then left. The phone buzzes again, drawing my attention to my pocket. I sit up and wipe my face. I pull out the phone and press Answer.

“Hello?” I say.

“Julep, finally.” It’s Lily.

“Lily? What is it? I’m in the hospital.”

“I know. Sam called. I’m so sorry, Julep. This is all my fault.”

“All
your
fault? What do you mean?”

“It’s my mom.” I can hear the tears, the conflict in her voice. “She put the contract out on you.”