Chapter 6

Brianna' s hand stilled on his chest as he pulled away. "What is it?" she asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. "It's just... you just got out of the hospital, B. We should take it slow."

It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it. He saw a flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she masked it with a look of concern.

"You're right," she said, her voice soft and understanding. "You're always so good to me." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'll go take a shower. Relax a little."

He nodded, grateful for the space. As she disappeared into the bathroom, his eyes scanned the living room. It was her space now. Her bags were by the door, her favorite blanket was already draped over the armchair Gladys used to sit in. But his gaze snagged on the mantelpiece.

Tucked behind a framed photo of him and Brianna at a college football game was a small, crudely made clay penguin. Gladys had made it at one of those paint-your-own-pottery places on their first anniversary. She' d been so proud of it. He' d thought it was childish. He'd put it behind the photo, half-hiding it. Now, seeing its stupid, lopsided smile felt like a punch to the gut.

He walked over and picked it up. The clay was cool and smooth in his hand. He remembered her laughing, dabs of blue paint on her nose, as she tried to get the beak just right. 'He looks grumpy, just like you before your morning coffee,' she had teased.

He heard the shower turn on. He quickly put the penguin back in its hiding place, his heart pounding for no reason. What was wrong with him? This was what he wanted. He was free.

He spent the next hour trying to distract himself, ordering food, unpacking Brianna's things, putting them away in drawers that were still faintly scented with Gladys's perfume. Every mundane object was a landmine of memory. The specific brand of tea Gladys drank. The worn-out cookbook she used every week. The little notes she left on the fridge.

He was watching TV, his mind a million miles away, when a news report came on. A breaking story about a multi-car pile-up on the I-15 two nights ago. His attention sharpened when they showed an image of the wreckage. A silver sedan, its front end completely crushed.

It looked like Gladys's car.

He leaned forward, his heart starting to hammer against his ribs. It couldn't be. There were thousands of silver sedans in the city. But then the camera zoomed in on the shattered rear window. A small, faded sticker was still visible in the corner. A cartoon heart with the letters 'RN' inside. Registered Nurse. A gift from Jody when Gladys had passed her boards.

No. It couldn't be.

He felt a sudden, desperate need to get out of the apartment.

"Brianna," he called out, his voice strained. "I have to run to the hospital. Forgot to sign off on some charts."

She came out of the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp. "Now? But dinner's almost here."

"It's an emergency," he lied, grabbing his keys. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He fled the apartment, the image of the wrecked car burned into his retinas. He drove back to his own house, the one he had shared with Gladys. He didn't know why he was going there. He just needed to see it, to confirm she wasn't there, that she was safe somewhere else.

As he turned onto their street, he saw a light on in the living room window. A surge of relief so powerful it made him dizzy washed over him. She was home. She'd come back.

He parked and practically ran to the front door, fumbling with his key. He pushed the door open, a name on his lips. "Gladys?"

The housekeeper, Maria, was in the living room, packing a box. She looked up, startled.

"Dr. Patterson? I thought you weren't coming back here."

"The light was on," he said, his voice hollow as the relief drained away, replaced by a cold dread. "I thought..."

"Ms. Vazquez paid me for the rest of the month," Maria said softly. "She asked me to pack up her things for her. She said she would send someone to pick them up."

His phone rang, the shrill sound making him jump. It was an unknown number. He almost ignored it, but something made him answer.

"Am I speaking with Dock Patterson?" a formal, male voice asked.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Officer Miller with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. We're calling regarding a vehicle registered to a Ms. Gladys Vazquez."

Dock's blood turned to ice. "What about it?"

"Sir, the vehicle was involved in a fatal traffic collision two nights ago. We've been trying to reach her next of kin. Your number was listed as her emergency contact."

The words didn't compute. Fatal. Collision. Gladys.

"No," Dock said, his voice barely a whisper. "No, that's not possible. She's fine. She just left." He sounded like a madman, even to his own ears.

"Sir," the officer said, his voice patient but firm. "We need you to come down to the county morgue to make a positive identification."

The phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor.

Fatal.

He sank to his knees, the world spinning around him. It was a mistake. A horrible, terrible mistake. It had to be.