On Wednesday night, Skyla arrived at the penthouse carrying a thick notebook.
She looked terrible.
Hair unwashed.
Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Face pale from exhaustion.
She dropped the notebook onto the kitchen island.
“Look at me.”
Archie did.
She opened the book.
Pages and pages of blue handwriting.
Numbers.
Hospitals.
Foundation names.
Treatment centers.
Contact information.
“You aren’t calling anyone.”
His throat tightened.
“You won’t give me your medical records.”
“Sky…”
“I called three clinics that match the treatment you described.”
His stomach dropped.
“None of them have you registered.”
He stared at her.
She leaned forward.
“What is happening?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice cracked.
“Don’t tell me nothing.”
She pointed at the notebook.
“I have barely slept in two days because I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Archie couldn’t look at her.
“Are you giving up?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
