Miranda Read Free

where the detective could contact the woman that was still his wife.
    “Do you have any paper?”
    Hernandez pulled out a small notepad and pen from his jacket and placed them on the table. I reached out. With a look, I asked permission to take them. It wasn’t until he agreed with a nod that I moved them towards me. I wrote down a name and a number with my best handwriting.
    “This is Norman’s attorney. He may be able to help you contact his family.” While reaching out to take the pen and pad back, he brushed my hand.
    God, these hormones are driving me crazy.
    “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind if I contact you again, if necessary.”
    Another unwelcome thought.
Why would it bother me that such a handsome man contacts me?
    “You’re welcome. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need.” I made sure he understood that I was at his complete disposal,
for whatever he needed.
    He again reached out to say goodbye. I did the same and, for a second, I sensed that his eyes were like an open book, and just when I thought I could read them, the book closed again. It was as if he had realized his misstep. Then I felt guilty about thinking how attractive I thought he was with his tanned skin, when the real reason I was there with him brought me back to reality… Norman.
    I thought of calling someone… someone else from the office, of course, because they should know what was happening. I thought that a call at that hour would upset anyone, so I decided not to. I left a voicemail message with Medika’s corporate counsel, and Norman’s attorney, Ethan.
    I walked towards the waiting room. There were seats available now. I entered and sat down.
     

 
    I awoke to the ring of the cell phone. Yawning and anxious, the cell that I had in my hands fell to the floor. I answered with a raspy, cracking voice.
    “Miranda Wise, hello.”
    I recognized Ethan’s voice instantly.
    “What the hell is going on?” Tactfulness had never been one of his strengths. “Where the hell are you?”
    I had forgotten my executive voice and used a more calm and informal one.
    “In the hospital waiting room,” I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to feel my body’s reactions and make sure that it was still there. If only there was still hope of waking up from a bad dream.
    “What happened? Are you okay?”
    “Yes. It’s Norman. He had an accident a few hours ago.” My voice cracked the moment I said
accident
.
    “God! What happened to him? How is he? How is Norman?”
    My silence aggravated Ethan’s usual characteristic anxiousness. He asked me again how our friend was. I explained briefly, without embellishing the situation: “It’s bad.”
    That instant, only silence came across the other end of the line. Then, a moment later:
    “I’m on my way. You can explain in person.” The called ended.
    The cell’s screen backlight had barely shut off when I heard a masculine voice above all others.
    “Relative of Norman Clausell!”
    I felt like they were calling me, like I was that person, even if I wasn’t. I looked up and saw a nurse in blue clothing, standing below the “authorized access only” doorway. The man saw me and, noticing my anguished expression when hearing Norman’s name, knew that I was the one he was looking for. He waved me toward him using the papers in his hand, opened the door a little more, and indicated the way with his other hand.
    “You may see Mr. Clausell now.”
    I followed the nurse through another set of doors with a sign that read
Intensive Care Unit.
We passed three cubicles and arrived at Norman’s. It seemed like there was no hospital equipment that wasn’t connected to his body. I watched him carefully. His face had suffered enough: his cheeks were swollen and purple, and the inflammation in his right eye was worse. The impression this made left me standing at the foot of his bed staring with a lump in my throat, an upset stomach, and short of breath.
    “You may stay for a few minutes. Dr.