Leap Of Faith

Chapter Sixteen

[Photo by Cory Mogk from Unsplash]

Topher

I glance at the passenger seat, timing it with a passing street light so I might get a clearer read on Leni's mood. She's still staring straight ahead, face blank, posture rigid.

This is madness.

"Leni, I can see you're uncomfortable. If you'd like more time to think about—"

"No." She brands me with an expression I have yet to experience and cannot interpret. It doesn't quite correlate with her commanding tone. But still, I guide the Jeep into the left turn lane.

I circle to the rear of the hospital and back into my usual parking space, but leave the engine running. "I owe you an apology," I say, at the same time Leni blurts, "I'm sorry."

She groans. "Sorry again."

"I can't imagine why you believe you owe me the apology. This is entirely my fault. I should have told you my intention last night, given you time to think it through—time to find a polite way to tell me to bugger off."

The last bit is meant to add levity, but Leni's not having it. She's studying the building now, squinting as if the fading light has compromised her vision. But then her eyes grow wide. "You're taking me through the employee entrance?" she asks, her tone bordering on panic.

"We don't have to go in at all."

She responds with a sigh which is clear exasperation. Message received: she has not changed her mind.

"Or," I amend. "We could use the main entrance if you prefer."

"But there are cameras there too, right? At all the entrances?"

"Yes, and many more inside. There's no way to avoid them, nor is there reason. We're not breaking any rules—hospital or otherwise. This isn't the first time I've popped round to check on a patient. It isn't even the first time I've visited Emma."

Leni nods, gives the hospital another suspicious glance and then, determinedly, begins rummaging through her purse. She comes up with a rubber band, which she holds between her teeth while she rakes her fingers through her long, spiraling hair. It's divided into thirds and those strands are deftly twisted into a long braid. "Better?" she asks as she secures the end.

Better? Is she asking if I have a preference? "It's lovely either way."

She rolls her eyes. "Is it less conspicuous?"

"Oh. Yes, I suppose?"

"Good. Let's get this over with."

In the time it takes me to sort it—Leni's concern about the cameras, the reason for her less conspicuous hairstyle and her blind resolve to get this over with—she has the door open and one foot on the asphalt.

I cut the engine and unbuckle myself. Slam my door after exiting—although not intentionally. It's my need to rush, an attempt to get ahead of a situation gone out of control. And, gah, this thick pocket of humid air isn't helping. It's a sharp contrast to the onshore wind that hastened our nearly silent trek from the restaurant.

"Why are you so stubbornly determined to go through with this?" I ask when I catch her up in front of the Jeep.

"Do you want my help or not?" she snaps.

"Not if it's to be like this." I thud a fist against the weight in my chest. "Godsakes, Leni. It's painfully obvious you don't feel safe here. I'm not keen on feeling as though I'm escorting you to the guillotine."