Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Ruby

After I finish eating dinner, I change into the clothes that Miguel brought me. Now I’m just waiting for my doctor to give me my discharge instructions and sign my release papers. I hope it won’t be too much longer.

My mind is dwelling on the fact that I’m not going back to my apartment. I’m going to Miguel’s apartment building. All my stuff is there, so that should help, but it’s the actual trip to the apartment that has me most worried—leaving the hospital and driving across town to the new building.

Other than my recent ambulance ride, I haven’t been in a vehicle in two years. I was unconscious during the trip to the ER, so I didn’t know what was happening. But now, I’ll be fully aware of what’s happening. I’m not sure how I’ll handle being outside and in a car. At least I’ll be with Miguel.

I’m in the bathroom finishing up brushing my teeth and hair when I hear voices coming from the other side of the bathroom door. Especially one particular voice, heated and loud.

I open the bathroom door and step outside. “Dad? What are you doing here?”

My dad is standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at Miguel, who’s sitting on the sofa. As he turns to me, his expression softens. “Sweetheart, I came to ask you nicely to come home with me where you belong.”

I shake my head and look to Miguel, then back at my dad. “I’m sorry, Dad, but no.”

“I’m your father, Ruby. You belong with me, not with this—” he gestures to Miguel— “opportunistic—”

“Stop it, Dad. Miguel’s my friend. You have no right to talk to him like that.”

Miguel steps between us. “Mr. Foster, Ruby has made her wishes clear. She’s not going home with you, and you certainly can’t force her. She’s an adult. She can make her own choices.”

My father’s expression turns glacial. “Do you want me to have you declared mentally incompetent? Is that it? Because I will.”

I suck in a sharp breath, shocked that he’d say such a thing to me. Yes, I have issues, but I’m not mentally incompetent.

“All right, that’s enough,” Miguel says, advancing on my dad. He points to the door. “It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Foster. If you can’t be civil, then you can go.”

I have to admit, Miguel can be rather intimidating when he wants to. He hasn’t even raised his voice, and yet my dad takes a step back, not quite so confident now.

After my father storms out, I collapse onto the bed. “I can’t believe he said that.”

Miguel sits beside me and takes one of my hands in his. “Try not to let him get to you. He’s bluffing.”

The daytime nurse, Rita, pushes a wheelchair into my room. “I’ve come to go over your discharge instructions with you and give you your release papers. You’re free to go.”

Miguel asks Rita if she’ll stay with me while he goes out to the parking lot to bring his vehicle up to the front doors. Then he’ll come inside and escort me out to the car.

It’s not long before Miguel returns.

“Have a seat,” Miguel says to me, gesturing to the wheelchair.

I try not to laugh. “Do I really have to?”

He nods. “Sorry, but it’s hospital policy. I have to wheel you out to the car.”

I take a seat, feeling very self-conscious. Miguel hands me his duffle bag. “Hold this for me?”

“Sure.” I set it on my lap and rest my arms on it.

Miguel squeezes my shoulder. “Just relax, honey. I’ll have you home in no time.” He rolls me toward the door. “Just focus on Pumpkin and how happy he’ll be to see you again.” When we reach the privacy curtain, he reaches out to grasp the fabric. “I’m going to open the curtain now, okay?”

I nod and close my eyes. I hear the whirring sound as the curtain slides open. The chair moves. I can tell we’re in the hallway because the air feels a bit cooler, and now I hear the chatter of distant voices, conversations in other rooms, down the hallway, probably in the waiting room.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm.” My eyes are still closed, and the longer we’re out here—out in public—the more my stomach hollows out, and I feel sick. My ears start to ring.

I hear the ding of an elevator, then the whoosh of the doors. I can tell he’s wheeled me inside. There are other people in here with us, murmuring quietly about where they’re going to go for dinner.

As the elevator descends, Miguel rests both hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. It’s only then that I realize I’m shaking and breathing heavily.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs quietly. “Try to relax.”

Still, I keep my eyes closed and go to my happy place—my apartment. Only it’s not my apartment we’re going to. It’s a different place filled with my things. I focus on my art supplies, performing a mental inventory of all my brushes and paints and palette tools. I catalog my favorite paintings that hang in my studio. I think about the commissions I’m working on—customer orders that are behind schedule now because of my hospitalization.

The elevator doors open, and the wheelchair moves forward. Ambient noises are louder now. I hear voices all around me. I smell flowers—roses, to be exact. I smell coffee. We must be passing through the hospital lobby.

“We’re almost at the door,” Miguel says in a low voice. “Once we’re outside, I’ll wheel you to the front passenger door of my car. I’ll help you into the vehicle, and we’ll be off. Okay?”

I nod. What other choice do I have? None.

Miguel brushes his hand gently over my hair. “You’re doing great. Just a little farther. Hang in there.”

When Miguel wheels me out through the doors, I’m hit with a gentle breeze and the scents of the outdoors. I smell fresh-cut grass and flowers, car exhaust. The heat from the sun warms my face.

I’m outside for the first time in two years.

The shaking intensifies.

When I hear the screech of tires, followed by someone leaning on their horn, I flinch.

Miguel rubs my back. “It’s okay. Just some idiot behind a wheel.”

The wheelchair glides to a gentle stop, and then I hear the beep of his vehicle doors unlocking. At the sound of the car door opening, I shudder, as it brings back memories of the carjacking.

“In you go,” he says. He takes the duffle bag off my lap and tosses it into the rear seat of the vehicle. He takes my hand, helps me stand, and guides me into the front passenger seat.

I still haven’t opened my eyes. If I can’t see it, it’s not real. I’m not really outside.

I’m shaking when he secures my seat belt. He lays his hand on my thigh. “Ready to go?”

When he reaches for my hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss the back of it, a shiver courses down my spine.

“You’re trying to distract me,” I say, fighting a smile.

He chuckles. “Is it working?”

I laugh. “Maybe a little.”

“I’m going to shut your door, then walk around to the driver’s side and get in. Then we’ll be off. We’ll be home before you know it.”

My door closes. A moment later, the driver’s door opens. The vehicle rocks slightly as he slides into the driver’s seat. As soon as the engine starts, we move forward, eventually surging into traffic.

“Don’t you want to see where we’re going?” he asks.

“No.” I keep my eyes closed and focus on breathing. I think of Pumpkin, imagine his purring and the soft, warm weight of his body pressed against mine. I think of my paints, the colors, imagining how they mix together creating beautiful hues and shades. I think of my plants. Oh, my God. My plants. “Did the plants get moved, too?”

Miguel pats my thigh. “Yes. Everything was moved over. You’ll feel right at home, I promise.”

The rest of the trip passes in a whirlwind. We drive down into a cool, dark space into what I suspect is an underground parking garage. My shaking intensifies, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. My mother was killed in a parking garage—they’re dark, dank caverns filled with innumerable hiding places. Filled with monsters, like the one who took my mother from me.

The vehicle comes to a stop. Miguel turns off the engine, and then he comes around to my door, opens it, and helps me out.

He pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. “We’re here. We’ll take the elevator up to our floor, walk down the hallway, then enter our apartment. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Our apartment.

I like the sound of that. I know he didn’t mean it that way. This is just a temporary place—temporary for me and for him. Once my stalker is caught, I’m sure I’ll go back to my own apartment, and life will return to the way it was before.

Miguel holds my hand. “Here’s the elevator,” he says. “Step inside.”

He steers me into the opening, and we turn to face the doors, which swoosh shut. The elevator car jolts, and then it begins to ascend swiftly and smoothly.

Eventually, we come to a gliding stop. The doors open, and Miguel leads me out. We turn left and walk down a carpeted hallway. A keyring jingles, then a door opens, and Miguel guides me inside. My eyes are still closed—have been since before we left the hospital.

“We’re here,” he says.

It’s cool inside and smells like lemon-scented cleaner.

The door closes behind us, and I hear him turn the deadbolt.

Just one deadbolt.

“I’ll ask maintenance to install more deadbolts,” he says, sounding casual and very matter-of-fact. “And a chain lock.”

My chest tightens as I nod. He knows me. He gets me.

“You can open your eyes now,” he says quietly, his lips near my ear. His breath ruffles my hair, making me shiver. “You’re safely home.”

My heart is pounding as I prepare to see this place… this apartment that is filled with my things but isn’t my apartment.

I open my eyes and glance around the living room, the kitchen, and the balcony.

And then I burst into tears.