Realization hits me. “I can’t even go back to Kingston. I don’t even want to go back.” I press my hand to my face and try to catch my breath before looking up at Eric again. “I wish I could talk to my mother and have her really listen.” My eyes go wide. “Oh God. My mother. If Isaac knows about your father, she must, too.”
“Yes. You need to call her.” He releases me and faces forward. “Savage. We need—”
“To make sure Harper’s mother stays locked down?” He glances over his shoulder. “We’ve already talked to Adam about that.”
“She’s not going to agree,” I say. “I know her. She’s not going to listen.”
“We have a plan,” Savage assures us. “Blake’s brother, Royce, is calling her as an FBI consultant, which he is, and telling her that she’s on lockdown. Adam will show up as one of Royce’s employees, which he is, to protect her.”
Eric arches a brow my direction. “What do you think? Will it work?”
I nod. “I think it might.” I grab my new mini Chanel purse Mia bought me, which I don’t even remember bringing with me but clearly, at some point, I did. I even stuck my phone in it. I grab it and stare at the missed calls. “She called,” I say. “I didn’t hear it ring.” I punch the voicemail and play it on speaker: Your father. I need to talk to you about your father. I grind my teeth at her calling him my father again and Eric’s hands close down on my leg, understanding in the touch, as my mother adds: Why is he there with you? He’s in the hospital. He’s—call me. The FBI won’t let me leave. Call me now! Oh God. They’re calling again. I have to go. Just—call me. This is Eric’s fault. Somehow it’s his fault and you’re sleeping with him!
> The line goes dead and Savage whispers. “That was some heavy shit.” Smith elbows him and Savage growls. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”
“They’re calling again?” I ask, eyeing Eric. “Who are they?” I punch in the call back button for my mother.
“Probably Royce,” Savage replies.
“He’s right,” Eric says. “It’s likely Royce.”
“Royce is not a they,” I say. “I guess she means the FBI.” The line rings and rings and goes to voicemail. “She’s not answering,” I say, feeling panicked now. “Why is she not answering?” I redial.
“I’m calling Adam,” Smith says. “He’s got eyes on her.”
“Don’t panic,” Savage adds. “She’s safe. We have her.”
I get voicemail again and look at Eric. “I’m freaking out here.”
“Easy, princess,” he says, his hands coming down on my shoulders. “She’s safe. I’m sure she’s safe.”
Please let him be right. “Please be right.” I look toward the front of the truck. “Smith?!”
“No answer,” he says. “Adam must be talking to her. I’ll call one of the other men on the ground there.”
“And just to complicate this intense moment,” Savage interjects, “we’re not only at the hospital, we have uniforms at the side door that already spotted us. And for the record, yes, our fuckhead team should have warned us.”
“You’re not making me feel good about my mother and your team,” I say, punching in her number again.
“I have Adam on text,” Smith announces, looking back at us. “He’s standing with your mother now. She’s fighting with him, but he’s got her under control.”
I breathe out and sink back into the leather seat. “Oh thank God.”
“We’re about to be in the hot seat with the cops,” Savage warns. “Stay where you’re at. We’ll come around and get you.”
“Don’t volunteer information,” Eric instructs.
“Yes. Okay.” He studies me a moment as if weighing my reply and state of mind which is shit right now, before he seems to accept that fact and reaches for the door. I inhale, preparing myself for whatever hell follows, wishing this was just over, but Eric takes my hand and his hand holding mine, his presence, is everything. I’m not alone for the first time in a very long time. Eric has somehow become so much to me in such a short period of time, only really it’s not so short. We’ve been there, in each other’s lives, for six years.
Eric helps me out of the SUV, and into the cold night air, I don’t want to escape nearly as much as I do this night. Savage takes his position in front of us and Smith behind, which reminds me again of that assassin that I didn’t even question Eric about again in the vehicle. I never got the chance. We reach the side entrance of the hospital, some sort of service entrance, and Savage enters the building first. Eric and I join him only to have two police officers step in front of us, crowding Savage and forcing him to step aside.
“Any word on my father?” Eric asks, the question his only greeting to the officers. One mid-fifties with what looks like an oddly fitted toupee on his head and crinkles at his eyes. The other younger, thirties maybe, with curly brown hair.
“He’s in ICU,” the older man states. “They’re running tests, but it appears it might be a heart attack.” The man’s words drip with accusation, as if the heart attack was a product of Eric’s making.
Eric’s hand flexes ever so slightly against mine, but his expression is unreadable, unchanged. His tone is steady, unaffected, as he asks, “And the man my security team found on the security footage?”
“We’re looking into it,” the younger officer announces, his keen eyes falling on our connected hands and then on me. “Perhaps your stepsister might recognize him.”