Chapter 2 - The Salt on the Paper
Harborview Medical Center at 3:30 AM was a symphony of low lights, squeaking rubber soles, and the metallic smell of antiseptic mixed with rain.
Griffin sat in the corner of a private waiting room on the fourth floor, three doors down from the ICU observation unit.
The two girls were side by side on the long vinyl couch across from him. Mrs. Gable had sat with them for the first twenty minutes, but Gideon had gently escorted her to an adjoining office to handle the formal administrative details and take her statement. Now it was just the three of them under the soft fluorescent glow.
Iris had swallowed three sips of hot cocoa from a paper cup before setting it on the low table. Hazel had not touched hers. She still held the green plastic pencil case in her lap, her fingers tracing the worn zipper back and forth.
"Her name is Sloan," Griffin said into the quiet room.
Hazel looked up. "We know. She's our mom."
"I know," Griffin said. "I knew her a long time ago. Before you were born."
"Were you her friend?" Iris asked. She had wrapped herself in a black wool coat that Gideon had pulled from the back of Griffin’s car. It was five sizes too large for her, making her look like a child playing dress-up, but she hadn't let go of the lapels since they stepped off the elevator.
"Yes," Griffin said. "I was her friend."
"Did she lose your number?" Hazel asked suddenly.
The question hit him like a physical blow, landing right under his sternum. He shifted in his chair, his broad frame leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because," Hazel said, her small voice steady as she looked down at the green pencil case, "she has a blue box in her closet. On the top shelf behind the extra blankets. It has paper inside. Old paper with blue lines. And every time she looks at it, she gets the same face she had tonight when she collapsed."
Griffin’s brow furrowed. "What face?"
"The tired face," Iris answered for her sister. "The one where she forgets to answer when we talk to her."
A physician in dark green scrubs pushed open the door, cutting off the conversation. Dr. Aris Thorne was a woman in her late fifties with sharp silver hair and a calm, clinical demeanor that Griffin had paid a substantial retainer to ensure was available whenever his executives needed medical intervention.
"Griffin," Thorne said, nodding once toward the girls before glancing at the clipboard in her hand. "Can I have a word?"
Griffin stood up immediately. He looked down at Hazel and Iris. "Stay here. I'll be right outside the glass."
"Don't go far," Iris murmured, her voice dropping an octave.
"I won't."
He stepped into the corridor. The glass wall allowed him to keep his eyes on the couch where the two small forms sat wrapped in wool and yellow fleece.
"How is she?" Griffin demanded.
"She’s stable," Thorne said, leaning back against the wall. "Extreme physical exhaustion complicated by acute dehydration, low blood sugar, and a severe migraine that likely triggered a syncopal episode. Her blood work shows elevated cortisol levels that suggest she’s been operating on three or four hours of sleep a night for months. The head injury from the fall is minor—no skull fracture, light concussion. We've got an IV running with fluids and glucose. She should wake up within the hour."
Griffin let out a long breath he felt like he’d been holding since three in the morning. "Has she been sick long?"
"Physically? She’s malnourished, Griffin," Thorne said bluntly, dropping the clinical tone. "She weighs ninety-eight pounds. For a woman who is five-foot-seven, that’s dangerous. Her body simply gave out. Whatever she’s been doing, she’s been running herself into the ground."
Griffin turned his head to look through the glass.
Hazel was opening her pencil case. She pulled out a small, folded piece of index paper and held it up to show her sister.
"Dr. Thorne," Griffin said, his voice dropping into a register that made the doctor pause. "I need a paternity panel."
Thorne looked at him through her thin-rimmed glasses. "Griffin..."
"Do it now. Use her intake draw and take a mouth swab from me. I want the results expedited through our private lab in Bellevue."
"You don't need a lab, Griffin," Thorne said gently, looking past him toward the couch. "Have you looked at the taller one's eyes?"
"I need it on paper," Griffin said, his jaw tightening until his teeth creaked. "I need the absolute truth before that woman opens her eyes and tries to lie to me again."
Thorne stared at him for five seconds, then nodded slowly. "I'll have the kit brought up. Results will take four hours."
"Make it two."
He turned back to the door and pushed it open.
Hazel immediately closed the pencil case, but not before Griffin caught a glimpse of the worn white index card she had been holding.
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of the couch.
"Hazel," he said gently, extending his hand. "Show me."
The little girl pulled the pencil case tight against her chest. "It's Mommy's."
"I know," Griffin said. "Show me."
Hazel looked at Iris. Iris nodded once—a subtle, secret communication that seemed to pass between them without a sound.
Slowly, Hazel unzipped the green vinyl. She pulled out the index card. It was soft at the edges, yellowed around the borders, and creased down the middle from being folded and unfolded hundreds of times.
Griffin took it. His fingers were slightly cold as he unfolded the heavy paper.
Written in dark blue ink—in Sloan's neat, slanted architectural handwriting—was a single block of text:
GRIFFIN DRAKE 206-555-0198 Drake Infrastructure - Private Line IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, CALL THIS NUMBER FIRST. THEY ARE HIS.
Griffin stared at the eight words at the bottom of the card.
THEY ARE HIS.
The ink on those three words was slightly smeared, as if water had dropped onto the paper while it was still wet years ago.
Or salt.
Griffin stood there in the quiet hospital waiting room, holding the faded piece of paper in his large hand, while six miles away the sun began to push its first pale, gray light over the misty ridge of Lake Washington.
"She told us not to touch it," Hazel whispered from the couch. "She said it was the most important number in the world, but we were only supposed to use it if she went to sleep and wouldn't answer."
Griffin didn't answer. He couldn't.
He carefully refolded the card along its worn creases, placed it back inside the green vinyl case, and zipped it closed.
May you like
Then he reached down, took both of Hazel’s small, cold hands in his own, and pulled her off the vinyl couch, pulling her into his chest along with her sister, wrapping his large arms around both blankets until he could feel their small, rhythmic breaths beating against his ribs like twin hearts.
"She's going to wake up soon," Griffin murmured into their dark hair. "And none of us are ever going back to that house again."
