All Sales Fatal (34 page)

“I’m taking you back to the house,” Ethan announced, glancing from me to Grandpa. “I’ve already hired a nurse, and the limo’s out front. Let’s get you checked out of this place.”

The power of Ethan’s name, personality, and assistants worked miracles with the hospital bureaucracy, and Grandpa and I were being pushed to the elevator in twin wheelchairs within the half hour. I was wearing the yoga pants and tee shirt I’d had on when I confronted Mike, even though they were torn, dirty, and lightly spattered with blood I suspected came from the murderous Make-a-Manatee owner. The ick factor was pretty high, but not high enough to make me prefer the too-well-ventilated hospital gown or wait while my folks fetched me another outfit.

“I don’t need to be pushed like a baby in a pram,” Grandpa grumbled. But his hand reached up to pat Mom’s where it rested on the wheelchair handle.

I looked around the lobby as Ethan pushed my wheelchair,
getting an impression of cold, gray-veined marble flooring, a cathedral ceiling that must send the hospital’s heating bills into the stratosphere, dusty corn plants, and scrubs-wearing hospital personnel moving purposefully. A uniformed security guard by the door barred the paparazzi from entering and made me think about my interview for the security director job, but I didn’t feel any angst about it. I’d get the job or I wouldn’t. And maybe I’d turn it down if they offered it to me; I’d been doing a lot of thinking about setting up in business for myself since talking with my mom, and the idea was growing on me. Right now, I was happy to be alive and relatively healthy, surrounded by the people I cared most about. I wouldn’t be playing softball tonight, but I had a feeling Jay would give me a raincheck. I could hear his voice in my head, calling me a wuss for backing out because of a concussion. He’d probably play through any injury or illness short of a lung transplant. I smiled to myself.

A photographer’s flash went off, a pop of white against the dark plate glass. A gaggle of paparazzi awaited us outside the hospital doors, and I suspected Ethan had no intention of missing the photo op by sneaking out the back. I didn’t care, even if my face was bruised and my mouth puffy from having the duct tape ripped off; at least Mom had brushed my hair. As we rolled toward the doors and the yapping crowd, I said, “You know, hospitals remind me of temples. Temples of healing. You get IVs and pills instead of wine and—”

“Emma-Joy, I’m worried you got more of a knock on your noggin than the docs realized,” Grandpa said.

I shut up and smiled, reaching across the gap between our chairs to hold his bony hand. “Nope,” I said. “I’m fine. Just fine.”