The Sweetest Obsession (Dark Hearts of Redhaven Book 2)
The Sweetest Obsession: Chapter 18

I don’t know why Grant keeps acting like I’ve gotten less stubborn as I’ve gotten older.

When he tries to tell me to go home and rest, I tell him he knows exactly where he can stuff it. I won’t take no for an answer until he lets me tag along to the medical center.

I need to know what’s going on with my stalker and I’m hoping—

Actually, I don’t know what I’m hoping for.

Maybe that my own nursing expertise might help find answers somehow, even if it’s nothing more than a little analysis to help with the case report.

But it depends what he was poisoned with, and maybe a few vitals that might show whether he took it on purpose, by accident, or by force.

It’s hard being here again so soon, standing outside the big observation window looking in at a room that’s almost identical to Mom’s. Right down to the same yellowish curtains on the outside windows.

It’s not a big place.

She’s down the hall, too, just a few doors away.

It’s hard to remember I’m not here for her, though Grant’s presence at my side helps.

He’s grimly silent, his hazel eyes fixed firmly on the man’s lanky, pale figure as the doctors and nurses work, stripping him out of his tailcoat and the shirt and slacks underneath.

He’s wasted with more than just age.

Sunken ribs, grey skin, and his breaths come in shallow wheezes.

It’s painful to watch as they intubate him, forcing his throat to take the respirator tube. IV needles run glucose and whatever they think he needs to counteract organ failure.

They’re going to have to pump his stomach, probably, since he’s not conscious to take liquid charcoal or anything else to voluntarily expel the poison—assuming it’s not already too deep in his system.

There’s a foamy froth around his lips where the tube goes in.

My stomach flips over.

I have to close my eyes and look away.

“I can’t believe this was suicide,” I whisper. “His body’s shutting down in one of the worst ways possible. I just… I can’t imagine anyone dying that way voluntarily. If he overdosed on sleeping pills, maybe. Slipping away unconscious where you can’t feel the pain. But bleeding from the inside like that…”

“He’s not your mother, Butterfly,” Grant says quietly. One large, warm hand settles on my shoulder, a comforting weight that eases the shock of that sudden insight. “It’s not the same. You’re not watching your mother die. And she didn’t choose to suffer, either.”

My throat starts closing, my next breath coming ragged, but I manage to choke it back.

“I know.” I lean into him, resting against his side and letting his presence take the edge off being here. “I just hope he survives. Not so we can pry out whatever he knows, or why he’s been following me. Because nobody deserves to die like that.”

“That’s my main concern,” Grant growls.

“You were right, though.” I curl my hand against the rock-hard tautness of Grant’s forearm. The thick hair there tickles my palm. “I don’t think he was trying to hurt me. Maybe trying to warn me.”

“Yeah, but about what?”

Before I try to guess through too many swirling thoughts, one of the nurses breaks away from the huddled heads bowed over the man’s twitching body and steps out of the room.

Without a word, she offers something to Grant.

A simple black leather wallet, slim and folded shut.

Grant grunts his thanks and takes the wallet.

The nurse answers with a nod, then ducks back into the room and joins the rest of her team again.

With a questioning look for me, Grant flicks the wallet open.

There’s not much inside, what looks like a debit card, a security access card, an ID, some cash, a few receipts. Grant slides the ID out and tilts it so I can see.

“Mason Law.” I read the name out loud slowly. Even his photo in the ID looks gaunt and sad. From the birthday, he’s sixty-four years old. “Is there a Law family in town?”

“Nah. Nobody with that name’s moved in since you’ve been gone. He’s not from here, I’d say, though I’ll get started on a real background check ASAP.” Muttering to himself, Grant fishes out the receipts. “Nothing really damning here. Looks like grocery shopping, mostly. Stopped by the hardware store yesterday. Bought a hose.” He frowns. “What the hell? Was he gonna try carbon monoxide poisoning first? Lock himself in a garage?”

“God, I hope not.” I shake my head, glancing at Law. “Honestly, if I had to guess…” I flick my gaze over his half-closed, empty eyes, the way he’s starting to convulse so stiffly. “Wait, he’s seizing, Grant. That’s a classic symptom of ricin poisoning.”

“Ricin? Like in the TV shows?” Grant does a double take. “Where the fuck would a civilian get ricin in this day and age, let alone use it to try to off himself?”

“It’s not that hard to make from certain beans,” I point out. “The internet makes it pretty easy to get a crash course in all sorts of crazy stuff. Plus, it’s so potent, you only need a little. It only takes a pinch to make the body shut down and crash. But it’s just weird, to me.”

“Weird how?” Grant asks.

“There are easier ways to do it. Ways that don’t hurt so much. Substances that don’t have to be made so precisely. So many over the counter meds that’ll let you slip off in your sleep while your liver shuts down.”

He stares at me.

“If you weren’t a nurse, I’d be really damned disturbed that you know that.” Grant watches me carefully. Like he’s worried for me that I have to know these things. “You deal with a lot of suicides back in Miami?”

“I worked in a hospice center,” I point out. There’s a pain there that tells me that no matter what happens to Mom, I might not be able to go back to my old career. I don’t know how to handle torturing myself like that again, no matter how much it helps comfort someone else.

There’s only so much fuel in the soul before your tank runs empty.

“Right,” he mutters.

“Sometimes people just want to choose how they go out, instead of waiting for their bodies to finish fading away naturally. Sometimes, other people step in, their loved ones wanting to help. So they sneak in ordinary stuff that wouldn’t be questioned.”

“Feels cruel.” His warm hand presses against the small of my back, bringing me in closer, as if he can protect me from dark memories that have already passed. “To have to choose one end or the other, with no hope of recovery.”

“Well, the ones who succeeded… they usually have a DNR. So we let them go when it’s too late because it was their choice.” The look he gives me cuts me in two.

He’s everything holding me together right now. As I watch them working on Mason Law, I see so many other faces from the past.

I see myself in those nurses, struggling like hell to pull someone back from the brink.

“Philia?” he urges.

I shake my head. “Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always peaceful. Most of the time, they did it wrong. It almost hurt to save them, to bring them back, because they’d done just enough damage to make the end more painful and more prolonged.”

He must see what’s really on my mind, the worry and pain etched on my face.

“That won’t be your ma. She’s not looking to go anywhere,” Grant promises fervently, as if he has any control over that. “And you’re not there anymore. You aren’t. I get why you left, Philia. I do. But you don’t have to go back to that dark place.”

What else is there?

What else can I do, when I’ve been the Grim Reaper’s errand girl for my entire career?

“I don’t know, Grant. I don’t—”

Anything I wanted to say vanishes as Mason Law’s eyes snap open.

He pulls up as sharply as the strings tethered to my heart.

Even with the doctors and nurses grabbing at him, he sits up like a toy skeleton popping out of a trick coffin, a human jump scare with his throat working around the tube. He reaches out in a trembling, accusing spear.

Pointing right at me.

Oh, God.

His eyes lock on and I freeze.

Heart palpitations shudder through me in a wild rushing mess.

He gags, and Grant peels away from me, striding into the room, his massive bulk radiating pure authority.

“Get that damn thing out of his mouth,” Grant barks. “Let him talk.”

One of the doctors looks up, his face tight. “Captain, he—”

“He might be a goddamned murder victim,” Grant clips. “Whatever he’s got to say, this might be the only chance to find out who the fuck did this to him. Let him talk.”

The doctor gives him an uncertain look, even as the nurses grab Law by the shoulders and wrestle him down.

He’s still staring at me, fighting them with surprising strength.

I duck into the room quickly, stepping closer to the bed.

“Mr. Law?” I say. “Are you all right?”

His eyes roll wildly.

He lets out a choked sound as the doctor eases the tube out of his throat. Law coughs, his entire body convulsing so violently I just want to hold him, my heart wrenching when it looks like he’s about to snap in half.

But as he subsides, his head falls to the side toward me.

More foamy red spit bubbles past his lips as he lets out a wheezing breath. “You y-you’re not… s-safe,” he croaks. “H-have to go. T-take her… take h-her and go. D-don’t don’t… let him h-have her.”

“Who?” I demand, pushing closer to the bed, my heart climbing up my throat. “Ros? My sister? Is Aleksander hurting her?”

He turns paler when he hears ‘Aleksander,’ his skin bleaching white, but when his lips work open and shut, nothing comes out but strange gurgles.

“Did he do this to you?” Grant asks urgently, looming over the bed. “Do you work for the Arrendells, Mr. Law?”

Law’s head rolls toward Grant.

Law looks up at him with a weariness in his eyes, something I’ve seen far too many times—the glazed exhaustion of someone so sick of fighting their own broken body that they’re ready to give up.

“V-valet,” Law whispers. “F-for for nearly forty years…”

“Mother fucker,” Grant spits. “They lied to me. They fucking lied. Swore they didn’t know him.”

“Please, Mr. Law,” I plead. “Can you tell me if Aleksander Arrendell is hurting my sister? Please, I need to know.”

His head turns weakly toward me again.

But he only lets out a soft, rolling sigh before his eyes slip shut again.

And the monitors hooked up to him go wild as his vitals take a sharp dive.

“He’s crashing!” one of the nurses cries, and suddenly we’re being shoved out of the way, thrust toward the door by the bodies clustering around Law and trying to secure his hold on life. “Everyone who isn’t staff, out. Now!”

Grant and I exit dutifully, regrouping in the hall and watching helplessly.

I don’t realize Grant’s trembling with anger until his hand finds mine, wraps it up tight, seeking as much as giving comfort.

I hold on for dear life.

“I shouldn’t have forced it,” Grant whispers. “Shouldn’t have tried to make him talk in that state.”

“You didn’t do this.” I shake my head. “He was in bad shape, Grant. He’d have hurt himself more trying to fight them to say what he wanted. You helped him.”

“I don’t even know the old bastard.” It comes out rough. The ridges of Grant’s knuckles print hard against my palm. “Hell, half an hour ago, I was ready to throttle him for stalking you. Now, I’d give my left arm to keep him alive.”

“It’s hope. Because there’s already been too much death around here.”

He doesn’t answer.

But that tight grip on my hand never wavers, keeping us locked together.

We stand together for what feels like hours, watching as the doctors get Law settled, bringing his vitals back to a modest baseline.

It’s a good sign.

Anything that could give him those symptoms of organ failure—ricin or otherwise—would be a slow, quiet killer. It’s possible he ingested it days ago and only found himself feeling a little off before it started to really hit.

But even when it passes that crucial threshold, it’s still not quite the point of no return. Organ failure deaths are slow and agonizing.

For now, there’s a chance to save him, if he’s holding through this.

There’s still a chance to pull him back from the cliff.

Please, God.

Hasn’t there been enough suffering in this town?

But I have a funny feeling God isn’t listening to me right now.

Because even as Law settles into a fitful sleep, intubated and sedated again, the respirator forcing his chest to rise and fall…

That same cacophony of screaming machines rises.

Not from Law.

But from a room several doors down the hall.

Cold sweat sweeps over me as I jerk toward that direction, drawn like a magnet.

I already know what’s happening before a throng of nurses comes rushing down the hall.

My nails dig into Grant’s hand as I pray, I pray, I pray that they pass my mother’s room—

No.

Room 110.

The door jerks open, people go funneling in, voices rising and calling out commands, demands for—the words aren’t even clear.

Everything narrows down to a tiny distant pinprick in my vision.

I think Grant’s calling my name, but I’ve dropped his hand and I’m running—running—racing through a wavering nightmare of runny colors.

But I can’t stop.

Just like I can’t stop the churning thud of my heart or the slap of my feet against the cold tiles or the way the icy sterile air pours down my throat and hurts my lungs.

I have to save her.

I have to save my mom!

They don’t love her enough.

Yes, they’re professionals and they’ll do their jobs, but they won’t fight the way someone who loves her will. I have to—

“Ophelia!” Grant calls roughly.

Then there’s nothing at all.

I don’t know what I’m thinking when I hurl myself into my mother’s room.

When I see those doctors and nurses perched over her bed like vultures, like soul reapers coming to take her away.

She’s so pale, alabaster white.

And I let out a soft scream, flinging myself at her bed.

“Mom!” I can’t even see her anymore, not when it’s just bodies and limbs in my way, my eyes overflowing. I’m grabbing at the emergency cart, digging through wrapped syringes of emergency injections. “Her kidneys are failing—you have to—she needs, she needs—”

“Ma’am—ma’am!” A nurse blocks my path, barricading my mother’s bed with her body. “What she needs is for you to get out of this room and let us do our jobs.”

“Damn!” Another voice erupts from behind her—followed by a long, sustained beep. That eerie sound I’ve heard more times than I can count, but this time it’s my mother, it’s my mom— “Flatline, we need the crash cart right—”

I throw myself at the nurse, but she shoves me back, then barks, “Captain Faircross!”

I’m fighting her, trying to claw my way through her, but now I have arms around me.

Huge, hugging arms I can’t fight.

Strong oak tree-trunk arms that bind me up and pull me against him, filling me with hate and wonder and another anguished scream.

Grant takes me hostage as he sweeps me away from the room.

He drags me along as gently as he can while I lose my shit, twisting and thrashing and shrieking through the hot, drowning tears skating down my face.

“Mom, no—Mom!”

She can’t die like this.

She can’t be alone.

Not suffering, with Ros nowhere to be found, her body too weak to hold her strong, bright spirit.

“Ophelia, stop,” Grant growls, clutching me against him.

He wrestles me into the hall until my mother’s creeping death is just a surreal portrait through the window. A still life painted in crisis and pain.

“Ophelia, will you listen? They’re going to fucking save her. They are.”

“Clear!” comes from inside the room, followed by a terrible liquid zapping sound.

I can’t bear to watch after the first time my mother’s body jerks like a puppet shaken by some angry child.

The fire goes out of me and common sense comes flooding back.

Oh my God, what have I done?

“Ophelia,” he whispers again, pinning me to his chest.

That embrace becomes my world, overtaking the horror, the fear, the impending loss.

This man truly is a bear, forever bigger and brighter than the great one in the night sky.

He’s certainly holding up my entire world.

This time, I don’t fight Grant when he turns me away, running one big hand down my back.

I bury my face in his chest, smothering my sorrow in his bulk.

“Clear!”

Then more of that hellish zapping.

I can’t really hear it now, but it’s still in my brain, the ugly sound of my mother falling limply against the hospital bed and losing her hold on life.

It’s breaking me in slow motion.

Imaginary noises hollowing me out horribly, but I can’t hold it in.

Can’t escape that hell sound even with Grant’s arms wrapped around me like he can block out every evil and protect me with the soft wordless silence he offers.

His drumming heart is so strong under my cheek, though.

And I know—I just know—if he could only take some of his strength and give it to restart my mother’s heart, he would without hesitation.

Why does tragedy always feel like forever, though?

In reality, I think it’s only a minute.

It can’t be much more than that when there’s so little time between the heart stopping and brain death due to lack of oxygen. They’d quit working before they’d revive her as a vegetable, I know that with the DNR, and yet it still feels like a thousand years condensed into one brutal moment where they charge and clear, charge and clear, all choreographed in perfect sync to my sobs.

Until that flatline tone stops.

Until it becomes a slow, yet consistent beeping.

I turn my head sharply, terrified to hope.

Afraid to think Mom cheated death once again, only to be wrong.

But that green line on the screen doesn’t lie.

The slow zigzags tracking cardiac activity, and suddenly that flurry of motion around her turns quieter, gentler, settling her into place.

Closing up her hospital gown over the subtle burn marks on her skin from the shock paddles, a small sacrifice to keep her alive.

Her eyes are closed, her lips slack.

But her chest rises and falls while that slow beep echoes over the room.

I go down limply against Grant. My knees won’t hold me up any longer.

I don’t know if I’m sobbing with relief or if I’m still petrified and pre-mourning. I can’t decide.

I just know it feels like the medical staff bought me a little more time to say goodbye.

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