He’d come to bring us home.
All of us.
Relief surged through me, sharp as a knife. By the time I pulled my watery eyes away from the impending rescue and looked back at the sycamore, where the strange figure had been…
No one was standing there.
The shadows were empty.
Whoever she’d been…
Whatever she’d wanted…
She was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip.
- Imogen Warner, being read to filth
I’d always hated hospital waiting rooms. The first memory I had of sitting inside one, I was only five. They’d rushed my parents there after their accident. Mom was DOA. Dad held on for a few days, only to slip away a bit more with every passing hour.
It was awful. All of it. Every last moment. But thewaiting— the waiting was the worst part.
Waiting for him to live.
Waiting for him to die.
Waiting for the fates to swing like the cruelest of pendulums, one way or the other.
I’d been too young to fully understand what was going on. All these years later, the memories felt distant when I looked back. Watercolored and weak. But the one thing I did know for certain, even at five, was that waiting rooms were the worst place on planet earth.
The air, so heavy in my lungs. The fluorescent lighting overhead, buzzing like a timer that’s run out. The yellow wallpaper, meant to be cheerful, no doubt, but instead the jaundiced pallor of the terminally ill.
We’d all gathered as the afternoon crept on. Appearing one by one. In pairs and trios. In groups and clusters. Until everyone I’d met since coming to Salem seemed to fill the waiting room to bursting.
Sitting there, looking around at all of them — Sally, Agatha, Gwen, Graham, Florence, Desmond, Declan, Georgia’s mother, Georgia’s sister, Welles, Hunter, Holden, Sawyer, Detective Aguilar, Chief Coulter, Rhonda the night manager, and a sun-tanned gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair I’d since learned was Mr. Monteith, owner of the illustrious Sea Witch Inn, who’d flown in from Florida to show his support — for the first time in my life, waiting didn’t seem so very bad.
Their collective presence closed around me like two arms in an embrace. I didn’t feel the horror or the grief or the anxiety anymore. Only the love. The hope. The family.
Home.
The door to Rory’s room opened. Everyone sat up a bit straighter in their chairs as Cade and Gigi stepped out into the hallway. Gigi’s eyes were swollen from crying, but there was a relieved smile on her lips. Cade looked relieved, too. But his expression changed when his gaze found mine in the crowded room. It went totally gentle. His eyes were shining with pride and something stronger — something that made my whole heart clench. I could hardly pull breath into my lungs when he was looking at me like that.
“He’s okay,” Gigi announced to the room at large, her voice breathy. “His ankle isn’t broken. They say he can go home tomorrow morning.”
The wave of relief that washed through the room was palpable. Chief Coulter and Detective Aguilar shook hands with the FBI agents in the corner. Gwen leaned deeper into Graham, and his arm went tighter around her shoulders. Desmond smiled indulgently at Florence as she looked to the ceiling and dropped an enthusiastic f-bomb. Agatha and Sally were both grinning wide.
The Gravewatch men took the news in typical stoic stride. Still, Welles ran a hand through his long hair and shook his head. Sawyer’s eyes were crinkled up at the corners. The twins, who were leaned back against the far wall, both exhaled in tandem.
I reached over and squeezed Declan’s hand. He squeezed back, hard, and when I looked over, I saw his dark brown eyes were shining with emotion.
“It’s over now, Dec. You can breathe.”
He nodded, blinking rapidly.
“Go to your Mom, honey.”