Grey
Page 119
“And you are?” she asks, a flush creeping over her face.
“I’m her brother,” I lie smoothly, ignoring her reaction.
“This way, Mr. Reed.” She bustles over to the nurses’ station and checks her computer. “She’s on the second floor; Behavioral Health ward. Take the elevators at the end of the corridor.”
“Thanks.” I reward her with a wink and she pushes a stray lock behind her ear, giving me a flirtatious smile that reminds me of a certain girl I left in Georgia.
As I step out of the elevator on the second floor I know something is wrong. On the other side of what look like locked doors, two security guards and a nurse are combing the corridor, checking each room. My scalp prickles, but I walk over to the reception area, pretending not to notice the commotion.
“Can I help you?” asks a young man with a ring through his nose.
“I’m looking for Leila Reed. I’m her brother.”
He pales. “Oh. Mr. Reed. Can you come with me?”
I follow him to a waiting room and sit down on the plastic chair that he points to; I note it’s bolted to the floor. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
“Why can’t I see her?” I ask.
“The doctor will explain,” he says, his expression guarded, and he exits before I can ask any further questions.
Shit. Perhaps I’m too late.
The thought nauseates me. I get up and pace the small room, contemplating a call to Gail, but I don’t have to wait long. A young man with short dreads and dark, intelligent eyes enters. Is he her doctor?
“Mr. Reed?” he asks.
“Where’s Leila?”
He assesses me for a moment, then sighs and steels himself. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “She’s managed to give us the slip.”
“What?”
“She’s gone. How she got out I don’t know.”
“Got out?” I exclaim in disbelief, and sink onto one of the chairs. He sits down opposite me.
“Yes. She’s disappeared. We’re doing a search for her now.”
“She’s still here?”
“We don’t know.”
“And who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Dr. Azikiwe, the on-call psychiatrist.”
He looks too young to be a psychiatrist. “What can you tell me about Leila?” I ask.
“Well, she was admitted after a failed suicide attempt. She tried to slash one of her wrists at an ex-boyfriend’s house. His housekeeper brought her here.”
I feel the blood draining from my face. “And?” I ask. I need more information.
“That’s about as much as we know. She said it was an error of judgment, that she was fine, but we wanted to keep her here under observation and ask her further questions.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I did.”
“Why did she do this?”
“She said it was a cry for help. Nothing more. And, having made such a spectacle of herself, she was embarrassed and wanted to go home. She said she didn’t want to kill herself. I believed her. I suspect it was just suicidal ideation on her part.”
“How could you let her escape?” I run my hand through my hair, trying to contain my frustration.
“I don’t know how she’s gotten away. There’ll be an internal investigation. If she contacts you, I suggest you urge her to come back. She needs help. Can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure,” I agree, distracted.
“Is there any history of mental illness in your family?” I frown, then remember that he’s talking about Leila’s family.
“I don’t know. My family is very private about such matters.”
He looks concerned. “Do you know anything about this ex-boyfriend?”
“No,” I state, a little too quickly. “Have you contacted her husband?”
The doctor’s eyes widen. “She’s married?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not what she told us.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll call him. I won’t waste any more of your time.”
“But I have more questions for you—”
“I’d rather spend my time looking for her. She’s obviously in a bad way.” I rise.
“But, this husband—”
“I’ll get in touch with him.” This is getting me nowhere.
“But we should do that—” Dr. Azikiwe stands.
“I can’t help you. I need to find her.” I head to the door.
“Mr. Reed—”
“Good-bye,” I mutter, hurrying out of the waiting room and not bothering with the elevator. I take the fire escape stairs two at a time. I loathe hospitals. A memory from my childhood surfaces: I’m small and scared and mute, and the smell of disinfectant and blood clouds my nostrils.
I shudder.
As I step out of the hospital I stand for a moment and let the torrential rain wash that memory away. It’s been a stressful afternoon, but at least the rain is a refreshing relief from the heat in Savannah. Taylor swings around to pick me up in the SUV.
“Home,” I direct him, as I get back in the car. Once I’ve buckled my seatbelt I call Welch from my cell.
“Mr. Grey,” he growls.
“Welch, I have a problem. I need you to locate Leila Reed, née Williams.”
GAIL IS PALE AND quiet as she studies me with concern. “You’re not going to finish, sir?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Was the food okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I give her a small smile. “After today’s events, I’m not hungry. How are you bearing up?”
“I’m good, Mr. Grey. It was a total shock. I just want to keep busy.”
“I hear you. Thanks for making dinner. If you remember anything, let me know.”
“Of course. But like I said, she only wanted to speak to you.”
Why? What is she expecting me to do?
“Thanks for not involving the police.”
“The police are not what that girl needs. She needs help.”
“She does. I wish I knew where she was.”
“You’ll find her,” she says with quiet confidence, surprising me.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.
“I’m her brother,” I lie smoothly, ignoring her reaction.
“This way, Mr. Reed.” She bustles over to the nurses’ station and checks her computer. “She’s on the second floor; Behavioral Health ward. Take the elevators at the end of the corridor.”
“Thanks.” I reward her with a wink and she pushes a stray lock behind her ear, giving me a flirtatious smile that reminds me of a certain girl I left in Georgia.
As I step out of the elevator on the second floor I know something is wrong. On the other side of what look like locked doors, two security guards and a nurse are combing the corridor, checking each room. My scalp prickles, but I walk over to the reception area, pretending not to notice the commotion.
“Can I help you?” asks a young man with a ring through his nose.
“I’m looking for Leila Reed. I’m her brother.”
He pales. “Oh. Mr. Reed. Can you come with me?”
I follow him to a waiting room and sit down on the plastic chair that he points to; I note it’s bolted to the floor. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
“Why can’t I see her?” I ask.
“The doctor will explain,” he says, his expression guarded, and he exits before I can ask any further questions.
Shit. Perhaps I’m too late.
The thought nauseates me. I get up and pace the small room, contemplating a call to Gail, but I don’t have to wait long. A young man with short dreads and dark, intelligent eyes enters. Is he her doctor?
“Mr. Reed?” he asks.
“Where’s Leila?”
He assesses me for a moment, then sighs and steels himself. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “She’s managed to give us the slip.”
“What?”
“She’s gone. How she got out I don’t know.”
“Got out?” I exclaim in disbelief, and sink onto one of the chairs. He sits down opposite me.
“Yes. She’s disappeared. We’re doing a search for her now.”
“She’s still here?”
“We don’t know.”
“And who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Dr. Azikiwe, the on-call psychiatrist.”
He looks too young to be a psychiatrist. “What can you tell me about Leila?” I ask.
“Well, she was admitted after a failed suicide attempt. She tried to slash one of her wrists at an ex-boyfriend’s house. His housekeeper brought her here.”
I feel the blood draining from my face. “And?” I ask. I need more information.
“That’s about as much as we know. She said it was an error of judgment, that she was fine, but we wanted to keep her here under observation and ask her further questions.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I did.”
“Why did she do this?”
“She said it was a cry for help. Nothing more. And, having made such a spectacle of herself, she was embarrassed and wanted to go home. She said she didn’t want to kill herself. I believed her. I suspect it was just suicidal ideation on her part.”
“How could you let her escape?” I run my hand through my hair, trying to contain my frustration.
“I don’t know how she’s gotten away. There’ll be an internal investigation. If she contacts you, I suggest you urge her to come back. She needs help. Can I ask you some questions?”
“Sure,” I agree, distracted.
“Is there any history of mental illness in your family?” I frown, then remember that he’s talking about Leila’s family.
“I don’t know. My family is very private about such matters.”
He looks concerned. “Do you know anything about this ex-boyfriend?”
“No,” I state, a little too quickly. “Have you contacted her husband?”
The doctor’s eyes widen. “She’s married?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not what she told us.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll call him. I won’t waste any more of your time.”
“But I have more questions for you—”
“I’d rather spend my time looking for her. She’s obviously in a bad way.” I rise.
“But, this husband—”
“I’ll get in touch with him.” This is getting me nowhere.
“But we should do that—” Dr. Azikiwe stands.
“I can’t help you. I need to find her.” I head to the door.
“Mr. Reed—”
“Good-bye,” I mutter, hurrying out of the waiting room and not bothering with the elevator. I take the fire escape stairs two at a time. I loathe hospitals. A memory from my childhood surfaces: I’m small and scared and mute, and the smell of disinfectant and blood clouds my nostrils.
I shudder.
As I step out of the hospital I stand for a moment and let the torrential rain wash that memory away. It’s been a stressful afternoon, but at least the rain is a refreshing relief from the heat in Savannah. Taylor swings around to pick me up in the SUV.
“Home,” I direct him, as I get back in the car. Once I’ve buckled my seatbelt I call Welch from my cell.
“Mr. Grey,” he growls.
“Welch, I have a problem. I need you to locate Leila Reed, née Williams.”
GAIL IS PALE AND quiet as she studies me with concern. “You’re not going to finish, sir?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Was the food okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I give her a small smile. “After today’s events, I’m not hungry. How are you bearing up?”
“I’m good, Mr. Grey. It was a total shock. I just want to keep busy.”
“I hear you. Thanks for making dinner. If you remember anything, let me know.”
“Of course. But like I said, she only wanted to speak to you.”
Why? What is she expecting me to do?
“Thanks for not involving the police.”
“The police are not what that girl needs. She needs help.”
“She does. I wish I knew where she was.”
“You’ll find her,” she says with quiet confidence, surprising me.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.
