“Celia, it’s Walter. We...we had a call this morning from the Garden Inn. The one on Kennedy.
That was where Celia’s father was staying. “What happened?”
“Well, the housekeeper went into your father’s room this morning to change the linens, and she found him unresponsive in the restroom.”
“Unresponsive?”
“Yes, it seems he slipped. They took him to General.”
“I’ll head there now,” Celia said. She still hadn’t forgiven her father. But something in her gut told her there was more to the story.
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’m good. Are you sure he slipped? Is he okay?”
“Just tell them who you are at the nurse’s desk. They’ll give you all the details.”
Celia told Gladys she had to meet someone and left before her assistant could ask any questions. She made it to the hospital in record time, and when she asked about Stewart Marshall, the nurse showed her to a waiting area and promised to call the doctor.
“Ms. Brockwell?” a middle-aged woman called her name a few minutes later.
“That’s me. I’m Stewart Marshall’s daughter.” The words sounded strange.
“Follow me, and we’ll talk. Your father is in ICU.”
“ICU? From a slip in the bathroom?”
“Did you know your father was diabetic?”
“Yes, he told me. He said he was using some sort of insulin pump.”
“He was. I’m just not sure if he made an error, or there was some sort of malfunction.”
“What do you mean?”
Well, his type of pump also monitors blood sugar. When his sugar is too low or too high, he receives a notification, even an alarm if it’s severe. It looks like he gave himself a large bolus.”
“Bolus?”
“A dose of insulin. Perhaps it was at dinnertime? At any rate, he had too much. His pump should have notified him that his sugar was dangerously low, but apparently, it didn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your father went into a coma. His body began shutting down after his sugar bottomed out. And he wasn’t found until this morning, which means there is significant damage.”
“How significant?”
“I’m afraid his organs are failing.”
Celia didn’t respond as the doctor led her through a set of doors and down a hallway. They stopped in front of a small room.
“He’s in here. You may go in for five to ten minutes, then we’ll talk more. We’ve notified his children and ex-wife. They should be here this afternoon.”
Celia entered the small room and sat in the chair next to her father’s bed. His face was slack and pale, and it was obvious he was in serious condition. Monitors displayed his blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen level. He had an IV, and he was being given oxygen. She could also see a catheter bag at the foot of his bed.
“What happened, Dad? Did you take too much insulin? Was it you who overdosed? How did you fall?”
There was no way to know, but Celia couldn’t help thinking it was pretty convenient that her father was in a coma. Bart knew he was in town; did he know they were going to meet? Was he stalking her father the way he’d been stalking her? And even if he was, where was the proof?
“I don’t know what to do, Dad. We’re basically strangers. Your real family isn’t here yet. Why did it take you so long to figure out how bad you screwed up?” Celia took his hand and tried to feel something. She couldn’t. Maybe if they'd had longer. Still, she didn’t want to watch her father die. After a few more minutes of silence, she squeezed his hand and left the room.
“Ms. Brockwell,” a nurse called as she walked down the hall. “Would you like for me to contact you when the rest of your family arrives?”
It’s not my family.
“No thank you. Just call me if his condition changes. Or I’ll check.”
She pressed the button to open the double doors and left the ICU.
Chapter 29
There was less than a week until Natasha’s execution. Celia hadn’t heard anything from her, and she had to admit she was a little surprised. Of course, she didn’t really have phone call privileges, and she’d never sent a letter to Celia before. However, the two women had developed an odd sort of friendship, and the actress had seemed sad at the prospect of not speaking again. Celia was planning to attend the execution, but it wasn’t as if they would chat there. Celia had researched the protocol for that last day or so, and she knew a bit about what Natasha’s day would be like. It was strange to think of it. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but Celia was a bit sad as well. There was a kindredness about Tasha that both disturbed and comforted Celia.
It comforted Celia because she wondered over the years if she really was an ice queen, as a few people had told her. The term didn’t bother her; she was who she was, and her nature was part of what made her successful. However, it hadn’t escaped her notice that most people, especially other women, tended to be more emotional than she was. That emotion had always seemed to be a handicap in Celia’s estimation. Tasha understood that. Of course, Tasha was a serial killer. She’d been described as a sociopath, even a psychopath. Celia didn’t think the actress was the latter. However, Celia had wondered more than once if she herself might be the former. Looking back over her own choices, there was certainly manipulation there, along with a lack of regard for others. But certainly, everyone looked out for number one most of the time. They had to; how else could one achieve real success?
The phone startled Celia out of her ponderings. She saw Andrew’s name. “Hello, this is Celia Brockwell.”
Ms. Brockwell, it’s Andrew, Ms. Bronlov’s attorney.”
“Yes, hello. How can I help you?”
“Well, Ms. Bronlov has given me her list of requested visitors for next week. You are on the list.”
“Oh, really? Well, how does that work, exactly?
“Well, you’ll arrive at the prison several hours before the execution.
