The Inner Circle

88

I stumble backward, bumping into the spine of the open hospital room door.

“Good news!” the red-glasses nurse calls out behind me. “Nico’s upstairs. He’s on his way down.”

I barely hear the words. I’m too focused on the patient with… eight-ball. He’s got an eight-ball…

“I–Is he…? Is that…?”

“Relax. He’s fine,” the nurse says. “He’s PVS. Persistent vegetative state. Been like that since he got here-though actually, you should talk to Nico. We ask our patients to go in and do therapy for him: play music, rub his face. But Nico swears that he’s heard him speak-just mumblings, of course.”

I spin back to face her. It’s the first time she sees the panic on my face. “You okay?” she asks.

“Is that his name? R. Rubin?” I blurt, reading the name from the medical chart clipped to the foot of his bed. “How long has he been here?”

“Actually, that information is-”

“How long’s he been here!” I explode.

The nurse steps back at the outburst. Eightball doesn’t move, his bat eyes barely blinking.

“Ten years,” the nurse says coldly. “Now I need to ask you to leave. If you want to speak to Nico-”

Nico. I almost forgot. Nico’s headed here right now.

“I changed my mind. I don’t need to see him,” I say, cutting past the nurse and rushing back to the lobby. “And don’t tell him I came. You’ll only upset him,” I warn, meaning every word.

As I shove the metal door open and dart back into the cool air of the lobby, my brain is still swirling, trying to do the math. If Eightball’s here, then-No. Don’t even think it. Not until I know for sure.

“Well that was fast,” the guard with the big football ring calls out from behind the security desk.

“Can I-? Your sign-in book,” I blurt, pointing to the black binder on the edge of his desk. “You need me to sign out?”

“Nah. I can do it for you.”

“It’s fine, I’m right here,” I say, flipping open the book and grabbing the pen. My name’s on the last page. I purposely flip to the first, scanning names as quickly as I can.

For Eightball to be here… If Nico knew-or even if he didn’t know-there’s no way this was pulled off without help.

The first page in the overstuffed book dates back to June, over six months ago. There’re only two or three visitors per day, which, as I continue to flip through the pages, makes it easy to see who’s been in this building five months ago… four months ago… three months ago…

Oh. Shit.

No… it can’t be.

But it is.

My ribs contract, gripping my lungs like thin skeleton fingers. But before I can react, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Caller ID tells me it’s Dallas.

“You ready to pass out?” I ask as I pick up.

“Don’t talk. Just listen,” he insists. “We’ve got an emergency.”

“Trust me, the emergency’s here.”

“No, Beecher. The emergency’s here. Are you listening? I had some folks-some of our folks here-I had them run Clementine’s info to see if they could find something new. But when they looked up her address-”

“The address isn’t in her name. I know. It’s her grandmother’s place. Her grandmother owns the house.”

“You said that last night. But that’s the problem, Beecher. When they ran her name-according to everything we found…” He takes a breath, making sure I’m listening. “Clementine’s grandmother died eight years ago.”

Inside my ribcage, the skeleton fingers tighten their grip. I’m still flipping through the sign-in book. But I can’t say I’m surprised.

“I know,” I tell him.

“What’re you talking about?”

I look down at the sign-in book and reread the one name that is in here over and over and over again. Three months ago, two months ago, even last month-the signature is unmistakable. An effortless swirl from the one person who I now realize has been coming to see Nico not just since yesterday, but for over three months now.

Clementine.