sounded in the hallway outside, and the door squeaked open. She braced herself for the doctor, forcing a smile past her stiff lips although she had no idea if he could see it with the bandages covering her face.
“Good morning, Crystal,” Dr. Pace said.
She greeted him, but her voice quivered, giving away her nervous energy.
The nurse behind him offered her a warm but sympathetic smile, then took her vitals. “It’s always scary when the bandages come off,” she said softly. “But don’t worry. Dr. Pace is the best.”
Dr. Pace assembled supplies on the tray beside her, then motioned for her to lean back. “Just relax, Crystal. This part is painless.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as he snipped at the bandages, then began to slowly peel them away. The nurse bustled out the door, leaving her alone with the doctor.
Another layer fell away, and she inhaled sharply. Cool air brushed bare skin, the whisper of hope causing goose bumps to cascade up her arms.
His lab coat glided against her elbow as he bent over her. She opened her eyes and stared into his. The gray orbs probed her face as his fingers gently assessed each area, from her eyelids to her nose and her cheeks to her chin.
Her throat clogged with emotions. “Well?”
“It looks good so far. There aren’t any signs that you’re rejecting the new skin. Of course, you still need to continue the antirejection meds.”
She nodded. “Can I see now?”
He gave her a grave expression, one she remembered too well from the unsuccessful skin grafts.
“What’s wrong?”
He released a long sigh. “You’re going to look beautiful,” he said in a husky voice. “Right now you still have a lot of redness, some slight swelling and bruising. I want you to get the full picture when you finally look in the mirror.”
She didn’t believe him. Had to touch her face herself, feel the scars, see if the skin was smooth. She lifted a hand to check, but Dr. Pace caught her.
“It would be better if you don’t touch your face yet. Any germs could cause an infection.”
Tears of fear choked her throat as she knotted her hands in her lap. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He folded his arms. “We might need to make a few adjustments. But, like I said, things are progressing.” He patted her arm. “Trust me, Crystal. When you see yourself, I want you to love your new face. Just be patient. I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
Unwanted tears filled her eyes, but she nodded. Compassion underscored his tone as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her into his arms and hugged her.
“Shh, don’t cry. I promised you that I would make you beautiful again and that’s what I’m doing. Just trust me, hold on a little longer.”
She nodded against him, although inside she died a little, and the hope she’d felt dissipated. Something was wrong. Something he wasn’t telling her.
She needed more surgeries. More skin grafts. More months of healing.
She was still a monster.
As much as she wanted to leave this place, what kind of life could she have if she couldn’t stand to look at herself in the mirror?
DR. PACE SMILED TO HIMSELF as he left Crystal’s room. Pride mushroomed inside him regarding the beautiful woman he had created.
She was exquisite now. Her bone structure, strong and restored, lifted her cheekbones to a model’s perfection. Tissues had repaired and skin almost healed from the face transplant.
Yet he wasn’t ready to tell her.
No, she might not be able to accept where the new skin that covered her face had come from.
She looked so much like the dead woman that it sent a chill up his neck.
A seed of guilt gnawed at him for his deception, but he cast it aside. He needed to keep her dependent on him a little longer.
Soon she would realize that she couldn’t leave, either. That she needed him in every way. Then she would be his forever.
And none of the lies would matter.
But if she thought she was healed before he could completely win her, she might ask to be dismissed from the hospital.
And it was too soon for her to leave him.
If people recognized her, it would cause problems for him. And danger for her.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, DAMON was still stewing over the conversation with his parents while he drove to the courthouse for Antwaun’s hearing.
Dammit. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have secrets from them. But he’d kept them to protect them. And some of them he’d been sworn to by the government, by his job, his duty. Others’ lives might be endangered if he broke his vows.
This situation, their silence, was different. This had to do with his own damn brother.
Although they claimed they were protecting him. But, if he knew the secret, he might be able to better help Antwaun…. Had something happened to his brother in the military?
A half hour later, he, Jean-Paul, Antwaun’s lawyer, Dryer, the D.A. and judge convened for the bond hearing. Antwaun shuffled in, handcuffed and shackled like a common criminal, his expression dark and hooded, his mouth set in a grim line. Damon knew it had been a rough night for his brother and tried to offer him a look of encouragement. But Antwaun’s eyes seemed as empty this morning as if he’d already been tried and convicted.
The proceedings moved forward quickly. Antwaun pleaded not guilty. The D.A. muttered rhetoric about the blemishes on Antwaun’s career, his ability to easily access phony ID and passports, his connection to the underbelly of crime in the city, then produced photos of Kendra Yates’s mauled hand and emphasized the viciousness of the crime, using every punch he could think of in his request that Antwaun be remanded into custody until the grand jury reviewed the evidence. The police had searched Kendra Yates’s apartment. The inside had been ransacked before they arrived, and blood had been smeared on the walls. They hadn’t found a computer. The only fingerprints they’d discovered were Antwaun’s.
Dryer argued the fact that only a hand was found, not a body, that all the evidence was circumstantial, and then cited Antwaun’s work and the sacrifices he made daily for the city, his family background, and planting doubt about allowing the press to try the case instead of Antwaun receiving due process.
“The family has deep roots in the community, Your Honor, has donated time and money to rebuilding the city. Antwaun Dubois is not a flight risk. He is not wealthy, nor does he have a current passport. His parents are even willing to put up their home and business to cover the bail.”
“Our resources show us that Mr. Dubois may not be wealthy, but that a sizable amount of money has recently been
