Page 2 of Crush & Byte (Grim Road MC #9)

“And the security cameras,” she continued, her tone casual though her eyes remained intent. “They cover all the exits, I presume? Even the service entrance by the kitchen?”

“I… I’m not sure about all the security details,” I said honestly. “That’s more administration territory.”

“Of course.” She nodded, as if I’d confirmed something. “One more thing. Which staff members have access to the medication room after hours? Is it just the night nurse or do others have key cards?”

The question set off warning bells. “Mrs. Walsh, is everything okay? Are you concerned about something?”

“Just an old woman’s curiosity.” Her face softened into a gentle, confused expression that didn’t match the sharpness I’d seen moments before. “At my age, one develops odd concerns. You’ll humor me, won’t you?”

I smiled uncomfortably. “Of course. But maybe these questions would be better directed to Dr. Janeway during your next check-up? Especially if you have medication concerns.”

“Perhaps.” She reached out and patted my hand, her fingers cool against my skin.

“You’re a good girl, River. Not like some of the others here who can barely be bothered to learn our names,” she said as I handed her the mug of black coffee I’d brought for her.

“One more thing, dear.” She took the mug from me.

Instead of the slight tremor, now her hands were steady.

“Yes?”

“Why are you thinking about moving on? Do you have family somewhere away from here?”

That got my attention. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, Mrs. Walsh. How do you know that?” I had been thinking it was time to move on. I’d stayed here longer than I had anywhere since I’d been on my own.

She raised an eyebrow. “I told you. I pay attention. Besides, old habits, dear.” Her smile turned secretive. “In my former profession, information was currency. Some skills never fade, even when the hands that employ them do.”

I held her gaze for long moments, confused while she looked at me expectantly, waiting for more of an explanation.

“I spent my childhood being bounced around from one foster home to another,” I said.

I had no idea why I was telling her my story.

“Some people crave stability after that. For me it’s the opposite.

I get antsy, feeling like I need to move and start fresh. ”

She beamed at me, as if proud that I’d confided in her. “Very good, dear. Very good.”

“I’ll check back in a few minutes. If you decide you want to join crafts today, let me know.

I’ll keep you company.” I felt her gaze on me as I left.

The CIA story suddenly seemed less like a fantasy and more like a warning.

At least, in the fanciful part of my mind.

Because, I mean, who doesn’t like a good conspiracy theory?

Once we had everyone bathed and settled for the night, evening shifts at Evergreen were a different world.

Soft amber lighting and hushed conversations filled the halls instead of the daytime bustle.

This high-end nursing facility radiated the luxury and comfort of a resort, far from the cold, clinical vibe of a typical nursing home.

I wasn’t scheduled for nights this week, but when Donna had called begging for coverage, my bank account overruled my desire for sleep.

Besides, the night shift had its perks. No administrators hovering and few, if any, visitors.

Occasionally, a resident’s family stayed late or even slept over when their loved one was ill, but most of the time, darkness brought its own peculiar intimacy to caregiving.

During my two AM round, I noticed Mrs. Walsh had left her door open about six inches when it should have been closed.

The night light inside cast just enough glow to show a neatly made bed.

Mrs. Walsh had never been one to roam, but, but occasionally she would go on “missions” to gather “intel.” I checked the bathroom first -- empty -- then the small seating area near her room. Nothing.

“Mrs. Walsh?” I called softly, not wanting to scare her if I’d missed her somewhere.

No answer. I expanded my search, moving quickly down the hallway, checking the small kitchenette (dark and empty), the nurses’ break room (locked), and finally making my way toward the recreation room at the end of the hall.

The door was closed, but a thin line of light showed beneath it.

When I pushed it open, the room appeared empty at first. Everything seemed to be exactly where it belonged in the room with all the board games stacked on shelves, a baby grand piano in the corner, and chairs arranged around tables throughout the room.

I spotted her in the far corner, sitting in a straight-backed chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Waiting patiently.

“Mrs. Walsh? Are you okay?” I moved toward her, reaching for the light switch.

“Leave it,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the darkness with unexpected authority. The gentle confusion and sly mischief vanished completely. This voice belonged to a different person. Someone ruthless, who commanded and demanded obedience without question.

I froze, hand hovering near the switch. “You shouldn’t be up at this hour. Let me help you back to your room. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.” It felt lame, but honestly, the woman really unnerved me.

“Lock the door, River.”

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Walsh. It’s against --”

“Lock the door.” Her blue eyes caught what little outside light filtered through the blinds, sharp and alert in a way that made my skin prickle. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t for anyone else to hear.”

My hand moved to the door almost of its own accord, turning the small lock with a click that seemed too loud in the quiet room.

“Come closer,” she said, gesturing with a hand far steadier than I’d ever seen from her. Old and frail, my ass. When I approached, she reached out and grasped my wrist with surprising strength. “I need your help with something. Something important.” I let her tug me to the chair beside her and sat.

“What kind of help?”

“I need you to deliver a message to my grandsons. They’re in Riviera Beach, Florida.” She reached over and placed her cool hand on top of mine to make sure my attention was firmly centered on her, her silver bob catching the dim light. “You’ve been checking bus schedules on your breaks.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

“We’ve had this conversation, dear. You’re getting antsy, feeling your wanderlust. I’m simply giving you a destination and a mission.”

I thought for a moment. If I really was going to take off, why not help out Mrs. Walsh? “Why not simply call them?”

She shook her head. “This isn’t something I would trust not to be overheard. It needs to be hand-delivered.”

Why not ? I shrugged. “OK. What’s the message?”

“Memorize these three words. Don’t write them down. You have to remember them. You ready?” When I nodded, she continued. “Lockbox. Sycamore. Breach.” She spoke each word deliberately, watching my face. “Repeat them.”

“Lockbox. Sycamore. Breach.”

“Again.”

Strange, but I repeated the words. If it got her to go back to bed, I’d do whatever she wanted me to. I still wasn’t sure I was leaving or when, but if I decided now was the time, I’d deliver her message.

“Good.” She nodded, satisfied. “Tomorrow at four PM, go to the public library.” She spoke distinctly, but softly, almost in a whisper. “In the reference section, behind the 1986 World Atlas , you’ll find an envelope with something you need.”

“Mrs. Walsh, I don’t understand. What is this about? Who are your grandsons?”

She ignored my questions. “Once you have the envelope, you’ll need to find my grandsons. One goes by Crush, the other by Byte. They’re with a motorcycle club called Grim Road.”

“A motorcycle club?” My voice rose with disbelief. “You want me to deliver a cryptic message to a bunch of bikers?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, glancing at the door. “They’re not just any bikers. They’re family. And they need to know I’m disappearing for a while.”

“Disappearing? Mrs. Walsh, you can’t just leave Evergreen without --”

“I need to vanish until the heat wears off.” Her expression hardened. “There are people looking for me, people who think I still have something they want.”

“What people? What do they want?” My head was spinning. This had to be dementia talking, a complex delusion.

“You’re the only one I can trust,” she continued, ignoring my questions again. “You have no connections here, no one watching you.”

“Mrs. Walsh -- Maggie -- I can’t --”

“You can and you will.” Her tone left no room for argument. “The envelope will contain everything you need. Money, contact information, and instructions. All you have to do is memorize those three words and deliver them, along with the message that I’m safe but unreachable.”

“And if I refuse?”

Her expression softened slightly. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what was in that envelope.” She stood and looked down at me. “Besides, you were leaving anyway. Consider this a paid detour.”

Before I could think of a reply, she’d unlocked the door and walked out, head held high.

Lockbox. Sycamore. Breach .

What the fuck was I even doing? This was like some kind of spy novel, probably like the books I’d noticed her reading. She was likely in a dementia compounded dream or something. Shaking myself, I hurried out into the hall to make sure Mrs. Walsh got back to her room OK.

When I got to her room, Mrs. Walsh’s door was shut. I knocked lightly, then opened the door a crack. There was still faint lighting in the room for safety, but the room looked like I’d left it.

I checked her bedroom and, sure enough, the older woman was in bed, snoring softly.

I smiled as I partially closed the door before heading back out into the hallway.

Everything would be fine. I wanted to think Mrs. Walsh wouldn’t remember our conversation, but nothing like this had happened with her before.

What if she wasn’t delusional? What if everything she’d said was the truth?

I didn’t have answers for those kinds of questions.

She was right about one thing, though. I did want to know what was in that fucking envelope.