Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Keane

My day went from “we finally got ahold of your family” to being shipped off to some house with a couple of strangers. Strangers who still haven’t explained where the fuck my parents are.

I should be asking these people if they even know who I am. Keane Patrick Stone. If that doesn’t ring a bell, they should at least recognize my father. Hello? I’m Kit Fucking Stone’s son. He’s not just famous—he’s a goddamn legend, a name spoken in the same breath as Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, or Bruce Springsteen. I know people. This could qualify as kidnapping, for all I know.

Just take me to my father. He’ll fix this. He’ll bring in the best doctors, the best therapists, whatever the hell I need to make my brain and mouth work together again. Maybe that’s what I need: a miracle. Or at least someone who knows what they’re doing—not this stranger who’s somehow calling the shots for me.

Don’t get me wrong—this Ophelia person? Beautiful. Lovely, even. The kind of woman my mother might tolerate at first but never approve of in the long run. Too bland, she’d probably say. Not sophisticated enough for her precious Keane. Love my mother but she makes me sound like God’s gift to the world and no one deserves me. I’m pretty sure no one will want to be with me after realizing I’m a fucking mess and I carry the burden of two entitled parents who . . . fuck I somehow feel like maybe not being close to them might be a good thing.

They are overbearing and I can see my mother making an excuse to the press about my condition because no one should know that her son was in a coma and barely able to function.

Is this why I’m in the capable hands of this Ophelia woman? She’s some PR person or something?

No really, who is Ophelia? Were we friends? Did I know her? Or worse . . . were we something more?

Nah, a woman like her wouldn’t give a second glance to a guy like me. Too many tattoos, hair too long, and too many fans throwing their pussy at me on any given day.

Yeah, Ophelia makes no sense. But then, why is she in charge of me? She doesn’t seem like family. Maybe she’s some kind of miracle doctor here to save my sorry ass. Yeah, that’s got to be it. I wanted to ask her—hell, demand her medical credentials—but of course, my fucking mouth refused to cooperate. All I can do is blink.

And as I remember that, I rewind the conversation. She mentioned we were everything. What the fuck does that mean?

Fuck this can’t be real. I went from a famous songwriter to blink once for yes and twice for no. What the fuck happened to me? Rowan would have a blast if he saw me in this condition.

Where the fuck is he? Where is my family, damn it?

Since I’m truly lost and apparently I’m this Ophelia woman’s everything, I let her wheel me onto a flight to Portland. I’m now in a very strange house in a room that looks just like the hospital bedroom but bigger and with a lot of shit.

So yeah, I’m in Portland. Not Seattle, where I belong. Not my house, my life, my things. I should tell her about my place, tell her to take me back there. If I could just remember my address. If I could make her understand, maybe she could check on my dog. My dog. His name was . . . shit. I can’t remember his name.

That hole is driving me fucking insane.

The frustration wells up, hot and suffocating. My fingers curl into the blanket draped over me, twisting the fabric as if it might somehow steady me in this haze. My body doesn’t feel like mine. My thoughts are shattered glass, fragments scattered so far I can’t even begin to piece them back together.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps. Heavy, uneven, pacing just outside the room.

I freeze, my pulse quickening, the air in my chest thick and jagged. What now?

There’s muffled mumbling—low voices I can’t quite make out. It’s not the rhythmic steps of a nurse, not the careful movements of a doctor. No, this is different. It’s messy, disorganized, and it sends a flicker of unease crawling up my spine.

And then . . . silence.

The door creaks open, and a man steps inside.

Something about him feels off. Not in a way that makes me think he’ll hurt me—nothing that obvious. It’s deeper than that. He moves with a kind of self-assuredness that feels out of place here, his steps deliberate, his gaze too sharp, too knowing. It’s like he’s holding back, like there’s something just beneath the surface he doesn’t want me to see.

His eyes scan the room, then land on me. He doesn’t smile. He just stands there, looking at me like he already knows who I am, like he’s sizing me up before deciding what to do next.

It presses down on me, thicker than before. This is no better than the hospital. At least there, I knew what was happening—or at least what was supposed to happen. Here? Here, I’m stuck, waiting in a place I don’t recognize, with people I don’t remember, hoping my parents show up soon and fix this.

Because if they don’t?

I’m not sure how much longer I can take this.