Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

Dad continued. “She didn’t want me to tell you. She said she didn’t want to be a bother just in case it turns out to be nothing. But I think it would mean a lot to her if you could be here.”

If not for her, then for him. Maybe the weight of fear and uncertainty would be easier to bear if there were more of us to carry it.

“Yeah, sure I’ll be there. What time? Where?” I took the phone to the next room in a search of pen and paper. Found it, scribbled down Dad’s instructions. Repeated them all back. Mundane details kept the brain numb.

“Sorry about waking you,” he said. “I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t think it was important.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m glad you called. Dad—how are you doing?”

“It’s going to be fine. We’ll go in and get this taken care of, and everything’ll be fine.” He spoke with an edge of desperation. He said the words as if he thought speech would make them fact.

“That didn’t really answer my question.”

After a pause, he said, “I’m holding up. Mom’s the important one right now.”

“Yeah. I’m coming up. I’m leaving right now.”

“See you soon.”

We hung up. I set down the phone and returned to the bedroom. I started pawing through the closet for clothes. My hands were shaking.

“Kitty?” Ben said, watching me from the bed.

“I have to go to Denver. I have to go right now.”

“Just like that? Exile over?”

“Ben—it’s my mother.”

“I know, I heard.”

I thought about taking a shower, to wake myself up. No, too long. Clothes—jeans, T-shirt. No, something nicer. Blouse. I dressed quickly. Put my hair up.

Ben dressed as well. He followed me to the front of the house, watched me scoop up my bag, rush around looking for shoes—then he took my car keys out of my hand.

“I’m driving,” he said.

“You don’t have to go.”

“Kitty—you’re a wreck. I’m driving.”

I started crying. Ben held me. It only lasted a minute, then I pulled myself together. No time to panic. No time for despair.

In ten minutes we were heading north.

chapter 3

Fighting with morning traffic, it took us three hours to get to Denver. Ben knew where the hospital was and drove us straight there. “I’m not just a lawyer,” he’d explained, grinning. “I’m an ambulance-chasing lawyer.”

Good thing he came along. The parking garage was packed, but he patiently wound our way up each level until we found a spot. Then I couldn’t figure out what button to push on the elevator to get us to the hospital lobby, and once in the lobby I stood at the end of intersecting corridors and froze, uncertain where to go. Ben steered me in the right direction each time, finally pointing me to an information desk.

I held my stomach, which still hurt. Cramps still gnawed at me. My insides emptying themselves out. I was still sick.

“Don’t say anything,” I said, walking close to Ben. “Don’t tell them about it. The miscarriage, I mean.”

“Okay.”

I leaned on the information desk. “I’m here to see Gail Norville, she was supposed to check in this morning.”