Free Left for Dead by Kevin O'Brien

trouble of having a kid buy the rose for him? And he’d coach the kid with some stupid story about his mother in a coma—”
    “Some of those reporters will do anything to goose up a story,” Elmore said. “We aren’t telling them much. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them decided to get creative.”
    “Well, in addition to getting creative, someone also got past your security. Whether it was a reporter or Rembrandt or Santa Claus, I thought you ought to know.” Sherita paused. “And I thought you’d give a shit.”
     
    Harlan emerged from her bathroom with the flowers in a large tumbler. “Did the doctors say how soon you can come home?” he asked, setting the arrangement on her nightstand.
    Claire self-consciously touched her hair. “Not yet. I’m still a little wobbly. Plus I think they’re waiting for me to remember things. My memory’s kind of fuzzy.”
    She felt awkward around him. They were both trying hard to ignore the tension. She’d come back from the dead, and even the familiar felt strange. She desperately wanted things to be normal again.
    Harlan pulled a chair close to her bedside, then sat down.
    “How’s Brian?” she asked. “Why couldn’t he come?”
    Harlan cleared his throat. “You don’t remember?”
    Claire shook her head. “What? Did something happen to him? They told me Brian was all right—”
    “He is—as far as I know,” Harlan replied. He leaned forward in the chair. “Sweetheart, Brian ran away the night before you disappeared.”
    Numbly, she stared at him. “Wh—why did he run away?”
    Harlan sighed. “Beats me. Why did he take off the other two times?”
    Claire rubbed her forehead. She recalled an argument between Brian and Harlan one evening, months ago. Brian had grabbed some of his things and stormed out of the house. But he’d come back the very next afternoon. A few weeks later, there had been another quarrel, and he’d run away again. He’d phoned her after the first day—to tell her he was fine. That hadn’t stopped Claire from worrying herself sick—until Brian slunk home two days later.
    “Do you know where he might be?” she asked.
    “I think he’s staying with one of his buddies,” Harlan muttered, slouching a bit in the chair. “Must be someone we don’t know. The high school called, and he hasn’t shown up for classes. Then again, I’m not surprised.”
    “It’s been over a week,” Claire said. “What’s being done about it? Did you call the police?”
    “Of course, I did. I called them about you too sweetheart. This has been—like the longest week of my life. But I found you, Claire. And don’t worry about Brian. He’s a big boy. Heck, you know how independent he is. He can take care of himself. I keep getting hang-ups whenever I answer the phone—or the machine answers. I’m sure it’s Brian, wanting to talk to you. He’ll be back—once he connects with you. He came back the other two times. Right?”
    Claire couldn’t answer him. She had this awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something had happened to Brian, something she was blocking out.
    “He’ll be home soon enough,” Harlan continued. “Now that I’ve finally found you, I’ll pour all my energy into finding Brian. You’ll see, things will be back to normal. We can put this all behind us.”
    He reached for the envelope on the nightstand. “Tiffany sends her love, by the way.” He handed her the envelope. “She made this for you.”
    “Oh, how—how is she?” Claire asked. She started opening the envelope. She couldn’t look Harlan in the eye. She should have asked about her six-year-old stepdaughter. Tiffany was Harlan’s only child from his first marriage. Claire hadn’t adopted her, but they were planning on it.
    Tiffany had made her a “Get Well” card with watercolor flowers. She’d printed in crayon: “To Mom—I Miss you. Love, Tiffany.”
    “Oh, how sweet…” Claire started to say.
    A knock on the door interrupted