Resisting Ryann(52)

“Do you know if he’s a cop?”

“No. I wouldn’t have that information. I’m sorry.”

“So it’s possible that the person who did this,” I say, pointing at my dad, “might be on this very floor?” That concerns me more than anything.

“Shh!” She glances toward the door. “All I’m saying is that he isn’t the only survivor. I don’t know anything about the condition of the person or people who did this to him. What I do know is, it’s best if you leave the investigating to law enforcement, and stay out of this. Don’t go snooping around. It could be dangerous. You seem like the kind of woman who won’t stop until she gets her answers.” Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “Am I right?”

“Maybe, but what’s wrong with that?” I’ve got to call that Thomas guy.

“I just told you what’s wrong with it,” she points. “Does your father work in law enforcement?”

“Yes and no. It’s a long story, and I don’t want to ramble. He does some work under the table,” I reply.

“Then let them take care of this. I’m not going to say any more. I’ve already said too much as it is.”

I smile, reaching for her hand. “Thank you for all your help. And don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”





It’s been over twenty-four hours since my father’s condition took a turn for the worse. After collecting my phone from Gia, I sent her and Logan home, not expecting her to wait all this time. She’s been texting me every hour since. I told her to take a long nap, and stop feeling guilty for leaving. None of us had any sleep last night.

I left a voicemail for Thomas Sullivan then attempted to reach my mom again with no luck. I ended up falling asleep on a cot next to my dad, mentally drained and emotionally exhausted. He had another seizure-like episode, which resulted in him receiving more medication. Just like before, it freaked me out. Now I watch him lie here all doped up on several medications. It’s not like I can tell the difference. In a way, it seems like I’ve lost him already.

Michelle told me last night that I would see the neurologist today. We’re supposed to go over the results of my father’s brain scan. He’s looking less and less like himself, as time progresses, and I’m nervous with what the results will tell me. I’m losing my optimism at this point, but the last thing I want to do is discourage him from fighting. I just don’t know if he’s here anymore.

“Hello,” comes the voice of a male behind me. Turning around I see who I assume is the neurologist, as well as another man dressed in regular clothes. Both of them are older with gray hair, though the man in regular clothes is nearly bald. The other one holds out his hand. “I’m Dr. Belding. You must be?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Reese.” I give a small grin, tipping my head toward my father. “I’m his daughter.”

“Nice to meet you, Reese,” he replies, gesturing to the man standing beside him. “This here is Pastor Sorenson.”

The pastor smiles, his eyes kind. “I’m one of the chaplains here at the hospital.”

My grin fades instantly. I can think of only one reason a neurologist would bring a chaplain with him, and it isn’t a good one. “S-sorry,” I stutter. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just—”

“I understand. Believe me, I get that look a lot. There’s no need to apologize,” he replies genuinely.

Knowing we should get to the point, I lift my chin and ask, “Is my dad brain dead?” I look each of them in the eye. Their expressions are solemn as they communicate to me silently. If they’ve come here to tell me he is, then I know the decision I’ll be facing.

Silently, I wonder if they hate this part of their job—where they have to tell a person that their loved one is about to die … or already has.

The neurologist softly says, “He’s gone, ma’am.” “The scans show no blood flow to the brain. The reality of it is, your father will remain in a permanently vegetative state, as long as his heart keeps beating. To put it bluntly, these machines are keeping him alive.”

I’m going to be sick. “What about the first brain scan? Yesterday, I saw a tear come out of his eye while I was talking to him.” I’m grasping on to any hope I can find.

The doctor’s brows pinch together. “The first brain scan was taken when he got here. That one did show some activity, but very little,” he says, pinching with his fingers, indicating the smallest amount. “It’s possible he was still with us when you talked to him.”