Chapter 3 - The Long Night at Ashwood MemorialThe waiting room of Ashwood Memorial Hospital smelled of strong floor wax and stale vending-machine coffee.
Mavis was still sitting in the exact same chair where Brennan had left her hours earlier. She had refused to move to a regular room, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat the turkey sandwich a nurse had brought her on a plastic tray. She sat wrapped in the gray police blanket, her oversized hospital scrubs swallowing her frail frame, staring unblinkingly at the double doors marked SURGICAL INTENSIVE CARE.
Brennan walked in from the cold, his boots clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. He held a small, paper cup of hot cocoa in one hand.
He knelt beside her chair, keeping his movements slow and predictable.
"Mavis?"
The little girl didn't turn her head immediately. When she finally did, her dark eyes looked hollow, ringed with dark shadows of exhaustion.
"Did you find him?" she asked quietly.
"We found him," Brennan said, handing her the cup of cocoa. "Colton won't be coming anywhere near you or your sister ever again. He’s locked up in a cell where he can't hurt anyone."
Mavis stared at the cup of cocoa, but she didn't take it. "Is he going to jail forever?"
"For a very long time," Brennan answered honestly.
Just then, the double doors of the surgical unit swung open.
Dr. Aaron Stevens walked out. He looked exhausted, his surgical cap clutched in one hand, his silver-rimmed glasses pushed up onto his forehead. He had dark circles under his eyes, but there was a faint, weary relief etched into the corners of his mouth.
Mavis stood up so fast her blanket pooled around her ankles. She crossed the room with surprising speed, stopping right in front of the doctor.
Dr. Stevens knelt down until he was at her eye level.
"How is she?" Mavis asked.
The doctor managed a small, tired smile. "The surgery was long, Mavis. It took nearly four hours. The tumor was very large, and it had wrapped itself around some of her internal organs. But the surgical team was able to remove all of it without causing permanent damage."
Mavis’s breath hitched. "Is she sleeping?"
"She is. She’s in the recovery ward right now, resting comfortably," Dr. Stevens said gently. "She’s still very weak, and she’ll need a lot of time and medicine to heal from the poison and the surgery. But she’s breathing on her own. And she’s going to be okay."
The tension that had held Mavis’s small body rigid for days suddenly shattered.
She didn't cry—she had cried all her tears out during the long march through the storm. Instead, she let out a long, shuddering sigh, her knees buckling slightly. Brennan caught her by the shoulders, steadying her, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
Mavis buried her face against the shoulder of his uniform jacket, her small fingers clutching the fabric just like she had clutched the handle of the shopping cart in the station.
"Can I see her?" she whispered against his collar.
"As soon as the nurse says it's okay," Brennan promised, resting his chin against her soft brown hair. "I’ll take you right to her."
Darla Fincham walked up behind them, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She looked down at the little girl resting against the hardened detective, then looked up at Brennan with a soft, knowing look.
"Well, Officer Brennan," Darla said quietly. "It looks like your watch isn't over yet."
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Brennan looked down at the police identification card he had given Mavis hours ago, which she still clutched tightly in her other hand.
"No," Brennan said, tightening his grip around the child who had taught him what true survival looked like. "It’s just beginning."
