Page 43 of Someone to Call My Own
I sat up fast; my drowsiness immediately disappeared. “Beau, what’s wrong?”
“Emmmmory,” he slurred.
“Emory? Is he hurt? I don’t understand.”
“Heeee had another v-vision.”
I closed my eyes as understanding dawned. “Were you able to recover Kent’s body?” I softly asked.
“Y-yes.” That time his voice broke from emotion instead of booze. “He was j-j-just a kid, Jon. Had his whole life ahead of h-h-him. Why?”
“I don’t know, Beau, but I know you’ll find those answers.” I cleared my throat to dislodge the emotional lump lodged there. “Are you ready to tell me who Kent was to you?”
“C-c-can’t. I might’ve located his b-body, but I don’t know who put h-h-him there. I c-can’t risk the truth getting out.”
I wanted to know so badly but understood his reasoning. If people realized Beau had a personal connection they might clam up even more. Innocent people or witnesses could fear he wouldn’t give them a fair shake. He was handling it the right way, but I hated to see my friend go through such a difficult time while I was so far away and couldn’t help him.
“I’ll fly out in the morning,” I offered.
“Nooooo,” Beau slurred. “I’ll be f-fine, Jon. I just needed to talk to someone. It’s been crazy ever since I talked to Emory this morning.”
Hearing Emory’s name cut me to the bone and made me want to rip my hair out. Perhaps I needed to start saying it in the privacy of my own home so that it was easier to take when others sprung it on me.
“Are you one hundred percent certain the body was Kent’s?” He’d been missing for ten years so there wouldn’t be anything left but bones and clothes.
“There was a personalized g-g-gold bracelet on the l-left wrist of the body we f-f-found. Van is going to compare the d-d-dental records in the morning, but I know it’s h-him, Jon.” I’d heard Beau speak fondly of the county coroner slash medical examiner. His last name was something odd for a doctor, but I… Carver! Donovan Carver.
“At least you’ll get the confirmation soon and can hopefully solve the case. Beau, I will seriously come out…”
“No! P-patch things up w-with Emory.”
“I’ve tried, Beau. It’s no use.”
“It’s not l-like you to give up on s-s-something—or someone—important to you,” Beau softly said.
“You can’t force things.”
“He m-misses you. I can t-t-tell. Don’t w-wait until it’s t-t-too late.”
He sounded like he was talking from experience but, to the best of my knowledge, Beau had never been in love. “You better get some sleep, buddy. You’re going to need to be at your best to catch a killer. I have faith in you.”
“Thank y-you. Talk soon.”
Beau sounded exhausted. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he crashed hard. I wished I could say the same about myself. I lay away for another hour thinking about what Beau said about Emory missing me and wondering if it was true. Hell, just thinking his name nearly killed me.
“Emory. Emory. Emory.” I repeated his name out loud hoping it got easier to say and hear. It didn’t. “Damn it, Emory. What am I going to do about you?”
“Mr. Whelan?”
“Hmmm?” My head snapped up, and I looked into Dr. Caitlyn Rosenau’s intelligent brown eyes. I had liked her from the moment we met, even though I wished it was under better circumstances.
“I asked if you needed me to repeat any of the information.” She smiled softly. “I know it’s a lot to process and I want to answer your questions.” She tapped the folder on her desk that held my MRI results, my official diagnosis, and the care plan she designed for me. “Everything I’ve told you is also in this folder, but I’m sure you have questions.
“Mr. Whelan, your MRI results show a tumor in the dura fold that runs between the left and right sides of your brain. It has the characteristics of a meningioma. These usually start in the membrane layers called meninges beneath the skull. They grow inward and push on the brain; the symptoms depend on the part of the brain they appear. Your tumor is called a parasagittal meningioma, and the symptoms include headaches, personality changes, vision problems, and arm or leg weakness.”
I’d heard the words tumor and brain in the same sentence and started to zone out. I still caught bits and pieces of what Dr. Rosenau said, but I couldn’t string them all together to form coherent thoughts right then.
“Slow-growing tumor…”