Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
She pulled him off the pew, past reporters and cops, and shoved him toward the sheriff while rattling off charges, threats, and her phone passcode like she dared the world to stop her.
Ira leaned in beside me as we watched, and I could hear the smile in his voice even before he spoke.
“What a woman,” he murmured. “Isn’t she amazing?”
I couldn’t help the grin that spread slowly across my face, even with the tightness in my skull. “Yeah, she really is. You’re a lucky man.”
He nodded solemnly. “I know it.” We watched in silence for another beat, and then he added, “That nice fella outside—Edward—he said they’re on the lookout for Maddox’s friend, Clayton Barris.”
I tensed at the name.
Ira’s voice dropped slightly. “Apparently, he’s not a good guy. And I finally understand why Gladys didn’t want Colin hanging around with him.”
“That’s an understatement. He’s the one I’m worried about.” I paused, then shifted my gaze to him. “I need your help.”
He looked at me, his eyes sharp. “What kind of help?”
I hesitated, carefully measuring my words before I spoke. “The kind of secret you don’t share with anyone—not Eddie, not Webb, not even Gladys.”
He blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t argue.
I leaned in closer, dropping my voice. “If Barris is organized enough to keep track of his men, then the fact they’ve gone missing will tell him something. Maybe not exactly where I am—but it’ll narrow it down. If I do this right…I can use that.”
Ira stared at me, and for a second, I thought he might push back. But then he gave me a small, grim nod.
I reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “First thing in the morning…”
And he leaned closer, voice low and steady. “I’m with you, kid.”
If I hadn’t been in blinding pain, I might have appreciated the absurdity of what we were doing. As it stood, I was doing my best not to groan audibly with every movement, my ribs feeling like cracked ceramic and my head pulsing with a dull, persistent throb that reminded me my skull had not, in fact, healed overnight.
Ira had managed to find two sets of scrubs—who knew from where—and tossed one at me, along with a silk scarf that smelled like Gladys’s perfume. “She must’ve left it when she went to deal with that menace of a son of hers,” he explained with a shrug.
The perfume it smelled of was soft and floral and slightly overpowering, but I wrapped it around my bandaged head anyway and pulled on the oversized scrub top. He threw on his own pair and looked just left of official—somewhere between “retired volunteer” and “runaway orderly.”
“Right,” he said, patting the side of the gurney he’d wheeled in from God knows where. “Lie down and play dead.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “You heard me. We’re going out the back like two ghosts, and I’ve got a cover story if someone stops us. But it’ll work better if you don’t move.”
I sighed and eased myself onto the gurney. Every inch of me protested—my casted leg throbbed, my ribs screamed, and my head was its own symphony of misery. But I lay down, and Ira covered me with a sheet like he’d done this before, which was probably a conversation for another time. Once I was settled, he wheeled me into the hallway without hesitation.
I couldn’t see much from beneath the sheet, but I could hear everything—nurses chatting behind their desks, the squeak of sneakers on tile floors, the occasional beep of a monitor, and the soft, steady paging over the intercom. No one stopped us. Not a single person questioned the elderly man confidently pushing a gurney through the ICU wing as if he were on his way to Bingo night.
It was unreal.
Eventually, we reached a quieter section of the hospital and came to a stop. I peeked from beneath the sheet to see Ira peering both ways before veering sharply to the right.
“This way,” he whispered. "Now, play dead."
He parked the gurney beside a side door and ducked into the adjacent alcove. A moment later, he reappeared with a stolen wheelchair—scuffed but functional—and grinned like a teenager skipping school.
“All right, up we go. Slowly, though. The last thing I need is Webb kicking my tuchus because I got you hurt."
It took some careful maneuvering—i.e., an excruciating eternity—but eventually, I was eased into the chair, biting down on a whimper when my stomach protested too sharply. Then Ira wheeled me out into the night like we were just two night-shift regulars going for a post-shift break.
I blinked up at the truck parked in the far corner of the lot. “You drive a lifted F-150?”
“Of course! It’s got the good shocks and a nice radio. And Glady's car's never going to move again after the accident, so you'll like it.”