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She snatches the pack of peanut butter cups out of my hand.
“That’s just cruel.”
Alice winks. Redirecting us back to the discussion about my panic attacks, she speculates. “I bet even before that. Do you do yoga?”
Startled by her subject change, I scoff, “Do yoga? Alice, I’m a certified instructor.” I became one during my undergraduate years to destress from my compulsive nature.
Alice wheels over to her computer and makes some notes. Sardonically, I ask in a sotto voice, “Anything I can know about, Dr. Cleary?”
“I’m letting your surgical and PT team know I want you evaluated to see if we can add enhanced stretching exercises—”
“Such as yoga,” I surmise.
“Such as yoga by someone who knows how to do it without injuring themselves,” she corrects. “I think you’re getting too tense, and this will be a way for you to avoid tightening after therapy, but I want to ensure it won’t cause damage.”
I give thought to Bailey Payne’s last few months spent in a wheelchair. “While you’re at it, would you mind tacking on a similar request for Bailey? I think her muscles would benefit from it.”
“Sure.” Her fingers type rapidly. While she’s shooting off orders, she remarks casually, “I knew you’d tell me before you left if you were going to take the job.”
Crap. “Just fork over the peanut butter cups and let me sulk for a few minutes.”
Without losing momentum, she shoves the pack of open Reese’s in my direction.
Sinking my teeth into the first bite, I feel marginally better, though I’m not certain if it’s because of the sugar endorphins or because I just agreed to some sort of direction.
Either way, I’m not having an attack.
With that thought, my lips curve briefly as I shove the rest of the cup into my mouth.
I head out to my Pilot in the employee parking garage after the session, my endorphins higher than they have been in months. After confirming to Liam that yes, I will accept the role and the chocolate celebration with Alice, my good mood feels almost tangible.
Maybe things are going in the right direction. I unlock my SUV and chuck my purse into the back seat.
Practically leaping into the front seat, I pull on my seat belt and plug in my phone. I press the Start button.
Then I scream.
And scream.
Even as I dial my father’s number, I’m still screaming.
“Laura? Laura! Are you okay?” he shouts when the line connects.
“D-d-daddy.”
“What is it, baby?”
“It’s taped to the car window. I didn’t see it before I got in,” I babble, unable to wrench my eyes from the horrific image.
“Laura, sweetheart. Where are you?”
“Hospital. Employee garage.”
I hear him open and slam a door. “I’m on my way. Can you tell me what it is?”
Can I? Can I actually verbalize what’s attached to my window? “A-a-a ...”
“Laura Faith. Tell me what it is,” he bellows. I hear him unlock his own vehicle. He must be on the run—the same way he was the second he found out I was in the ER bleeding in the aftermath of Paulie Tiberi’s bloodbath.