Kidnapped Love

Chapter 29

Chapter 29:

The soft hum of the hospital equipment lulls me into a false sense of serenity, but the nurse's words shatter it like glass. "You'll be discharged tomorrow," she informs me, her voice cutting through the artificial calm.

Night wraps its arms around the room, and I'm left alone with my thoughts, the machines beeping their relentless rhythm. Every four hours, hands check my vitals, their touch clinical and detached. I try to focus on the beeps, but my mind spirals, tangling itself in the enigma that is Derek.

The officer's words echo in my head, a haunting refrain of missing pieces. No demographic information? It's as if they've vanished into the digital ether, leaving behind nothing but ghosts. They must have been technologically savvy, maybe even enough to erase themselves from existence. My heart races, not in sync with the beeping of the machines, but with fear and betrayal. Could they be using fake names? The idea gnaws at me—Derek can't be his real name. The man with the black hair and muscular figure who served drinks at The Lotus Lounge... he was a lie, just like everything else.

Underneath the sterile sheets, my hands clench into fists. How can someone just cease to be, become a phantom without a past? Anger simmers within me, alongside an ache for the truth.

A restless night ensues, each tick of the clock punctuating my uncertainty. The dim light from the hallway casts long shadows across the room, mirroring the dark thoughts clouding my mind. Derek's face hovers behind my eyelids—the strong jawline, his intense gaze—every detail a sharp reminder of the deception.

I keep replaying the exchange with Officer Kotowski, searching his expressions for something I might have missed. His furrowed brow when I mentioned Derek, the slight downturn of his lips—it all points to guilt. But there's a part of me, a whisper of compassion that refuses to be silenced. Derek is more than just a criminal; he's human.

As dawn breaks, bringing with it a new day, my resolve hardens. I need to see him, demand answers that only he can provide. The thought of visiting him in jail after his trial takes place coils in my stomach like a snake—but it's what I must do. He owes me that much, at least.

"Maybe then," I murmur to myself, the sound barely audible over the beeping of the machines, "I'll get the closure I need." And maybe, just maybe, I can start to heal.

The nurse enters, her steps brisk and purposeful against the sterile hush of my hospital room. She offers me a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Good news," she says, the clipboard in her hands a stark contrast to her pastel scrubs. "You're being discharged today."

Her words should be a balm, but they strike an odd chord instead. I search for the relief, expecting it to swell within me, but all I find is a tangle of anxiety.

"Already?" The skepticism in my mother's voice slices through the air, pulling my gaze towards her. She stands by the window, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing wildly as she speaks. I can tell she's not discussing dinner plans—her brows are drawn together, her mouth set in a grim line.

"Yes, the doctor cleared everything this morning." The nurse's voice is efficient, practiced. But there's something else there—a trace of discomfort, perhaps, knowing what we've been through.

My mother ends her call abruptly, her attention snapping to the nurse.

"I don't think it's safe for her to go home yet," she asserts, her tone laced with that maternal protectiveness that feels both comforting and suffocating. "The hospital has better security."

She's right, of course. My mind flickers back to Officer Kotowski's rundown of threats made by Byron—the behemoth of a man with a voice that could make walls shudder—and how he and his cohorts aren't securely locked away. It sends a shiver down my spine.