Page 82 of Xander

He shook his head. “I think having both of us there at the same time might incite things more.”

Jasper didn’t argue and began clearing the dishes before mumbling a “Good night.”

Xander ran his fingers through his hair, and I wasn’t surprised when he grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door. He glanced at me in disbelief when I didn’t voice a protest.

He didn’t know I’d been determined to play nice, but this wasn’t just about my resolve not to fight him at every turn.

Right now, I couldn’t digest the idea of him driving alone to the nursing home while his mother was in a state. He must’ve known as his eyes softened, making him look instantly older.

The engine was still ticking as it cooled down from the last drive in the wintry air. Xander swung in behind the wheel, letting out a harsh breath. Out of sight of his brother, his shoulders sagged, and his fingers tightened hard enough to divot the plastic.

The drive was mercifully short, and for the duration of it, Xander’s shoulders remained tense in a way I hadn’t seen before, making me wonder what kind of new hell we were in for.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

JORDAN

Eirini lived at an institution called The Rose, which should have had at least one rose bush on the grounds. But the building we parked in front of didn’t have a single bloom in sight. The building was a harsh, Brutalist style, with swaying mulberries now bereft of their leaves. Privacy hedges grew in front of the lower windows, which I knew to be juniper, but although they were free from cobwebs, they didn’t exactly inspire thoughts of gardens or even tranquility with their bristly fronds.

“Well,” I said, shifting from foot to foot. “This is nice.” I tried to sound bright, though I was now wondering whether Eirini would become more agitated upon seeing me, her supposed successor. When—if—the wedding had been explained to her, it would have been done without my presence.

We walked through the front entrance, where an orderly wheeled an older man in a wheelchair. In concession to the cold air, a blanket covered his lap. The orderly smiled at us, but the man did not.

We tailed them through the automatic doors into a place that smelled like floor polish and antiseptic. To our left was a hand sanitizer dispenser, and to our right, there was an emergency telephone. In front of us, the gray tile extended down the endless hallway like a pallid tongue.

There was a carpet in front of the desk and two fake potted plants. When I saw the painting of a swan beyond the receptionist’s head, I wanted to groan.

This doesn’t look very welcoming, I thought wearily as we headed down to reception. It was a sick reminder of my court-mandated institution—a place I swore I’d never return to.

I mentally shuddered at the memory. These horrific institutions were all the same. No matter how much cash you had in your pocket, these places were packed with cynical nurses who stopped caring after the first time a patient tried something disturbing. Most of these patients never got better, and the healthcare providers eventually stopped trying.

Xander had no expression on his face when he cleared his throat.

“Oh, hello,” the receptionist said, looking up at him. She was an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I was sure I didn’t imagine the flicker of interest in her watery blue eyes.

I rolled my eyes. I spent the day watching girls half my age throw themselves at Xander. I hadn’t expected to spend my night watching women twice my age throw themselves at him, too.

“What can I do for you?” she asked him sweetly.

“I spoke with someone earlier about Eirini Maxwell,” said Xander.

“Oh, yes, her.” The woman’s voice turned professional. The gravity of the situation must be dire for her to stop flirting. “We had her sent to her room. You can see her there, but she’ll have to be supervised.”

Xander frowned, and I felt my lips turning down at the other woman’s lack of compassion. Having witnessed firsthand what the orderlies had to endure, I never blamed the nurses for becoming desensitized, but her dispassionate comments were still difficult to swallow.

“Who was watching her when this all happened?” he asked. “She’s supposed to have around-the-clock supervision.”

“There were two orderlies in the room,” the receptionist replied in a cool tone. “But they have a roomful of patients to monitor and can’t be everywhere all at once.”

“I wasn’t blaming you,” he said diplomatically. “I’m trying to understand how a vulnerable woman was allowed to hurt someone else before hurting herself.”

“You’ll have to speak to the orderly on call,” said the receptionist, her voice flat now. “I don’t know the details.”

She didn’t tell us what room Eirini was in, but apparently, she didn’t need to. Xander strode confidently down the halls as if he’d done it hundreds of times before, taking us to a rear elevator just around the corner from a weathered couch and a cluster of vending machines.

We could hear Eirini before we came to her room. I could hear high-pitched keening in a foreign language, harsh and shrilled by fury. The unmistakable sound of something shattering followed it.