Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Parking Garage
By Thursday morning, the fatigue of chronic stress had settled deep into my bones. The dark circles under my eyes looked like bruises, and no amount of concealer could hide the exhaustion written across my face.
The hospital was operating at maximum capacity. An influenza outbreak had hit Louisville hard over the past week, and the emergency department overflow was spilling up into our fourth-floor medical-surgical unit.
I was rushing down the hallway with a medication tray when Dr. Marcus Vance—our attending physician, whose bedside manner was roughly as warm as a block of ice—intercepted me near the nurses' station.
"Mercer," Vance said, not bothering to look up from his tablet. "Room 412 needs its IV line flushed, and the patient in 415 is complaining about chest tightness again. Handle it before rounds at ten."
"On it, Dr. Vance," I said, pivoting toward supply storage.
Room 412.
Owen Hale’s room. Griffin’s uncle.
The man who had taught Griffin everything he knew about engines, the man who used to slip me extra-large chocolate chip cookies whenever I stopped by the garage during our first summer together.
I paused outside the door of Room 412, taking a slow breath before pushing it open.
The room was quiet, bathed in the pale morning light filtering through the window blinds. Owen lay propped up in the adjustable hospital bed, looking older and frailer than I remembered. His hair, once thick and perpetually stained with motor oil, was now stark white, and his skin had the papery thinness of someone who had fought a long battle with his own heart.
He turned his head as the door clicked shut.
For a second, his cloudy blue eyes squinted at me in confusion. Then recognition flashed across his wrinkled features.
"Ren?" he rasped, his voice sounding like dry sandpaper scraping against stone. "Is that really you, or am I hallucinating again?"
I walked over to the side of the bed, setting my tray down on the rolling table, and reached out to take his weathered, calloused hand.
"It’s me, Owen," I said softly. "I’m taking care of you today."
A slow, tired smile crept across his face, though it was quickly followed by a sharp wince as he clutched his chest instinctively.
"I heard you were working here," Owen whispered, his grip surprisingly firm around my fingers. "Griffin... he told me he ran into you."
"Yeah. In the hallway."
Owen’s gaze searched my face, full of a heavy, paternal sorrow. "He never stopped looking for you, Ren. Even when he was locked away in that hellhole, your name was the only thing that kept him breathing. Don't judge him too harshly. He made choices to protect us, not to hurt you."
"It's hard not to be hurt when your entire life gets erased overnight, Owen," I murmured, adjusting his IV drip.
"I know," Owen sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "Just... talk to him. Before it's too late. The men from his past... they’re still circling. Griffin thinks he can handle them alone, but he's wrong."
Before I could ask what he meant, the door swung open, and Griffin walked in.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing beside his uncle’s bed. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Griffin was dressed in another immaculate charcoal suit, his dark hair slightly ruffled by the wind outside.
"Ren," he said, his voice quiet.
"I was just checking his IV," I said, stepping back from the bed and pulling my hand gently away from Owen’s. "Everything’s stable. Dr. Vance will be by for rounds soon."
"Thank you," Griffin said, his eyes locked onto mine, ignoring the medical equipment entirely.
"Just doing my job."
I grabbed my tray and hurried past him toward the door, needing to escape the suffocating intensity of his gaze. But as I brushed past his shoulder, his hand reached out—not grabbing me, just hovering a fraction of an inch away, as if he wanted to touch me but didn't dare.
"Ren," he whispered. "We need to talk. Tonight. After your shift."
"I have a daughter, Griffin. I don't do late nights."
"Name the time. Name the place. I'll be there."
I didn't answer. I just walked out into the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The rest of the day blurred into a chaotic montage of beeping monitors, patient charts, screaming toddlers in the wing across the hall, and frantic orders from Dr. Vance. By the time my shift ended at 7:00 PM, I felt like I had been run over by a freight train.
I picked Rosie up from the after-school program, drove home in silence while she sang along to a pop song on the radio, and fed her a hurried dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches.
After I put her to bed, I sat on the edge of my own mattress, staring at my phone.
Ten text messages from unknown numbers over the past two days. I opened one of them.
Tell Hale his protection won't last forever. We know where the girl goes to school.
The blood drained from my face.
My breath caught in my throat. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor.
We know where the girl goes to school.
They weren't just coming after Griffin. They were coming after Rosie.
Panic—sharp, cold, and paralyzing—seized my chest. Without thinking, I reached down, grabbed the phone, dialed the number Griffin had slipped into my coat pocket earlier that morning, and hit call before I could talk myself out of it.
He answered on the first ring.
"Ren?" His voice was sharp, instantly alert.
"Griffin," I choked out, tears of absolute terror finally spilling over my lashes. "They know about Rosie. They sent a text. They know where she goes to school."
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There was a terrifying, dead silence on the other end of the line for three seconds. Then Griffin spoke, and the tone in his voice was something I had never heard before—a cold, lethal fury that sounded like a death sentence for anyone foolish enough to threaten his family.
"Pack a bag," Griffin commanded, his voice ice-cold. "Lock the doors. Do not open them for anyone except me. I’m twenty minutes away."
