Chapter 4 - The Recovery and the Lock
The orthopedic surgery was successful, but the recovery room at Northwestern Memorial was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine.
Maya lay in the center of the oversized bed, her left arm encased in a bright blue fiberglass cast that extended from her knuckles to her upper bicep. The swelling had begun to recede, but her skin was still pale, her small face looking incredibly tiny against the mountain of white hospital pillows.
A brand-new, modern crib sat directly beside her mattress. Inside, seven-month-old Ellie was sleeping soundly, her cheeks now a healthy, rosy pink, her tiny body dressed in a soft yellow fleece sleeper that Claire had purchased from the hospital boutique.
Maya’s right hand was still resting on the rail of the crib, her fingers lightly touching her sister’s foot through the slats.
The door opened quietly, and Grant Holloway walked in, carrying a small paper bag from a bakery down the street. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his expression tired but peaceful.
Maya’s eyes opened the moment the door clicked.
She did not flinch this time, but her body remained tense, her gaze tracking his movements with a quiet, analytical intensity.
"How is the arm?" Grant asked, sitting in the leather visitor’s chair near the foot of the bed.
"It doesn't hurt," Maya whispered.
"That's the medicine," Grant said, offering a small smile. "But the doctor says you’re going to be just fine. In six weeks, we’ll take that blue cast off, and you’ll be able to carry your sister again."
Maya looked down at the cast, her fingers tracing the rough, textured plastic. "Mrs. Vale... is she gone?"
"She is," Grant said, his tone absolute. "She is in a place where she can never hurt anyone again. And she is never, ever coming back for either of you."
Maya was silent for a long moment, her eyes moving to her sister, then back to Grant. "Where are the black cars?"
"There are no black cars, Maya," Grant said, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. "I’ve spoken with the state case workers. Because of what happened at Bright Harbor, the state has agreed to let me act as your temporary emergency guardian. You and Ellie are coming to stay at my house."
Maya’s brow furrowed, her face expressing the same deep, ancient suspicion he had seen on the sidewalk. "Why?"
"Because you need a place to stay," Grant said simply. "A place with heat, food, and a bed that doesn't have a number on it."
"And what do we have to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"For the room," Maya said, her voice dropping into a flat, businesslike tone that made Grant’s heart ache. "Mrs. Vale made us sell the candy. The other place before that, we had to clean the floors. I can't clean with this arm. But I can watch the baby so your wife doesn't have to."
May you like
"I don't have a wife, Maya," Grant said softly. "My wife passed away five years ago. And you don't have to do anything for the room. You don't have to work, you don't have to sell candy, and you don't have to clean. Your only job is to get better."
Maya did not answer. She turned her head to look out the triple-paned window at the Chicago skyline, where the snow was still falling in silent, white sheets. Her expression was unreadable—the face of a child who had been offered a miracle but was still looking for the price tag.
