The Executioners Three

Chapter Twelve (updated)

Freddie had only ever entered the tiny Berm Hospital twice in her life. Once on the day of her birth. And second, on the day her father had died.

She'd been five years old when Frank had passed away, but the beige linoleum floors and smell of rubbing alcohol had been forever branded into her brain. She remembered her mother's swollen eyes, and how Mom had hugged Freddie so tightly that Freddie had thought her ribs might break. She remembered Steve's pinched lips, and how he'd let Freddie have an entire Milky Way all to herself.

Above all, Freddie remembered the way the door into her father's room had loomed before her. Room 27 with the silver knob at Freddie's eye level. It had opened only twice the entire time she was there. She had never been allowed through.

She never got to say goodbye to Frank Carter.

They told her it was because it was too awful for a five-year-old to see, and she hadn't argued. The blanched faces on the doctors, the way they had rushed in and out with scrubs and scowls and blood all over . . .

She'd been scared of what she might find within. Then at 12:46 (Freddie had known because there'd been a clock on the vending machine), her mom had come out and told her that her dad had passed away. The heart attack had been too strong; Frank hadn't been able to overcome it.

Freddie had tried to feel sad about this. It was what people had seemed to expect from her. But she hadn't been sad. In the hospital or at the funeral a few days later. How could she be sad when she'd barely known the man?

Grief, she discovered, did come eventually. Less sharp and wild than in the movies, more textured and heavy. A sensation only elevated by the unspoken rule that had settled over her house like a shroud. Freddie hadn't known her dad; now she never would. She would forever be the girl whose dad had died.

In the twelve years since Freddie had come to the hospital, the linoleum had been updated to a cool gray, and they'd added fake plants that did give the space slightly nicer appeal. The alcohol smell was the same, though. And the autumn bite outside—she remembered that being the same too.

Freddie went straight to the front desk and asked to see Mrs. Ferris. The nice man told her to head to the third floor, so after an elevator ride and two hallways, Freddie found herself walking into a tiny waiting area.

It looked identical to the one from twelve years ago. So much so that her throat closed up, and her feet stopped working midstride. Over there was the vending machine. Beside it was the muted TV with closed captioning. Even the mauve seating looked exactly as she remembered.

But no. This wasn't that waiting area. This wasn't even the same floor. And now someone else was sauntering into the room from the opposite hallway—someone with tawny hair and a navy blazer.

He caught sight of Freddie right as she caught sight of him, and just as Freddie had done three seconds before, Theo Porter drew up short.

Freddie gasped. Theo looked awful. His left eye was swollen and purple, his jaw was worse, and even from across the room, she thought she could make out individual finger marks around his neck.

Without thinking—and completely forgetting what she'd told Divya less than an hour ago—Freddie crossed the room. Theo didn't move. He just watched her approach, expression inscrutable. And the closer Freddie got, the worse he looked. Stitches cinched across his eyebrow. A gash marring his right cheek, and the top of his lip busted too.

She halted before him and stared up. She itched to reach for him, to touch him. But her mind was smarter than her muscles. She balled her hands at her sides. "You look terrible," she said instead.