Chapter 8: Bat Out Of Hell

Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge. -Plato

My hand runs over the smooth surface, then flip the lever with the tips of my fingers.

Light illuminates the bathroom walls.

Stepping inside, I lock the door behind me. The vanity is heather-gray, and a floral border lines the walls. I inspect the image in the oval mirror. My eyes are red and bloodshot, which now match my hair color.

God, how I wish my grandmother were here. But she's not, and honestly, I've never felt so alone.

I turn the brass knobs on the faucet. The water's cool against my tear-stained face. Drying off, I'm surprised to find my hands are steady. Opening the door, I venture out into the small hallway. Indistinct voices sound in the distance.

A door swings open and slams against the cream-colored wall.

"Why dear, did I hurt you?" Mrs. Rankin eyes me closely.

I draw in a deep breath and plaster a forced smile across my face. "No, I'm fine."

I should've known it was the bat out of hell.

I can't help but think the day is getting better and better. If this pace keeps up, I'll encounter flying monkeys by noon, especially since I met the warped and twisted version of the scarecrow named Stephen this morning, who, evidently, seriously needs a brain and some scruples.

"Oh, Thank goodness." Mrs. Rankin's pinched face softens.

I gaze right, then left. My heart sinks.

Which way did I come from? I don't remember how to get back.

"You look lost, love. Do you know where you're headed?"

"To Mr. Crawford's office."

"I'm going that way. So, follow me."

Removing her granny glasses, she shuffles back and forth down the hall. The spectacles dangle on a chain around her neck, swing back and forth like a pendulum.

"Thanks, Mrs. Rankin."

"What's your name, dear?"

"Danielle Herring . . . Herrington, but most people call me Danny," I say. We enter the reception area.

"You're Danny Herrington?" A familiar voice booms behind us.

I spin around and come face-to-face with the gray-eyed man from the restaurant. He glares at me. His lips pursed tightly into a thin white line.

"Yes." I swallow a large lump in my throat.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

I take a few steps back. "Excuse me."

"You heard me." He looms over me. "I didn't stutter."

"Drake, what on earth has gotten into you?" Mrs. Rankin asks.

He clenches his jaws. "Why don't you ask her?"

My mouth goes dry, and my heart is pounding, racing in my chest.

Did I hear Mrs. Rankin correctly? Did she just address him as Drake?

I square my shoulders and lift my chin, meeting his icy gaze.

Oh, man, all I can think is this will not end well.

"Who . . . w-who are you?" I ask, barely above a whisper, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice.

He takes a step into my personal space. I place my hands in front of me but pushing him away is akin to trying to shove a brick wall back a few inches.

"Don't be coy with me."

Standing on the tips of my toes, I peer over his shoulder, making eye contact with Mrs. Rankin, who turns and walks down the hallway.

Where the hell is she going? And why isn't she doing something - anything?

"So, was that all staged in the restaurant?"

I snap my head back and glare at him. "What?"

"You heard me." He leans down closer to my face.

"Do I look as if I want strange men falling on me? Or touching me?"

Okay. Perhaps that wasn't the right thing to say to the angry six-foot refrigerator.

"You didn't complain in the restaurant."

The warmth of his breath tickles the side of my face. "Well, let's not forget, he was your friend, not mine."

Oh. My. God! I didn't just open my big mouth.

"What did you say?"

I attempt to scoot out from under him. He grabs my shoulders, pressing his body against me.

What do I do now? And why the hell does he have to smell so good?

"Oh, excellent! I see you've met Miss Herring," says Mr. Crawford. He places a hand on Drake's shoulder, peeling him off my body. "Come on, son. Let's take this into my office."

Mrs. Rankin takes a step forward, brushing hair out of my face. She wraps an arm around my waist and gives me a tight squeeze accompanied by a quick wink.

I shudder, exhale, and then I step toward the hallway.

"Don't mind him, dearie. His bark is far worse than his bite."

"I'm not sure about that."

Mrs. Rankin escorts me to Mr. Crawford's office. I stop in the open doorway, frozen in place. The blood drains from my face.

Drake's eyes fall upon me.

A shiver runs up my spine. As if one sociopath a day isn't enough, encountering two in the same room, simultaneously is well above my threshold.

"Come on. I'll walk you in." Mrs. Rankin guides me to the table. She nods at Mr. Crawford when I sit, then exits the room, closing the door behind her.

Stephen sets his coffee down on the top of the table. "You okay?"

"Do you really care?"

Stephen places a hand on my knee, and I nearly jump out of the chair. I grab his hand, but his grip intensifies. He pulls my chair closer to his, refusing to relinquish his hold.

"Stephen, let go," I whisper through clenched teeth.

Drake is leaning against Mr. Crawford's desk and crosses his arms and legs. He cocks his head sideways, eyeing Stephen's hand on my bare knee under the edge of the table. My face flushes. I pull my dress down over my other knee and struggle to free myself.

"Danny." Stephen leans closer to my ear. "Be still, and I'll let go."

I freeze and lock eyes with Stephen. After a couple of seconds, he removes his hand.

Pushing my chair away from his, I set my trembling hands in my lap.

Who the hell does he think he is?

"May I call you Danny?" Mr. Crawford asks.

"Yes."

"Thank you," Mr. Crawford replies.

"Mr. Briggs, I assume you can provide copies of Danny's birth certificate. Plus, the genetic DNA test results identifying her as Mae Herrington's granddaughter."

I turn and look at Stephen and crease my brows.

Stephen thumbs through his briefcase. "Yes. I can."

"What tests? What's he talking about?"

"My office performed DNA testing at your grandmother's request to confirm the maternal relationship between you and your grandmother, to prove you're Jennifer Ann's child."

"I don't understand. How and when did you do that?"

"When your grandmother was in the hospital, days before her death, she called the office and requested we conduct a full round of testing."

"She never told me that. Wait. Testing, what kind of testing? You mean my blood?"

"Yes," Stephen replies.

"Mr. Briggs, how is it Danny knows nothing about these tests?" Crawford asks with a raised brow.

I turn to Stephen, wondering the same thing.

"Mrs. Herrington didn't want her granddaughter to find out who she was. But she needed a transfusion, so they asked her granddaughter to donate blood since they're both AB negative. Danny signed all the papers, and the lab sent the samples off for testing. I assure you. The facility followed strict medical procedures, as you can see from the official paperwork."

"You tested my blood without my consent? Is that even legal?"

"We got your consent when you signed the paperwork in the hospital. Did you not read what you were signing?" Stephen holds my gaze with an expressionless face. "The hospital had to cross-match the blood, especially when screening for bone marrow donors, considering the circumstance, and with your grandmother's health condition, it was the only course of action we could take." He cocks his head to the side and looks over at Mr. Crawford. "So, where does this information leave us, Larry?"

"Well, it shows just cause to list Danny as an heir under the terms of Mr. Herrington's will." Mr. Crawford reviews the document.

"That's bull-shit. John James never spoke of any family." Drake takes a step forward.

Mr. Crawford raises a hand, stopping him dead in his tracks.

I've never felt so trapped in a room before in my life.

"Mr. Briggs, I'm filing a request for the retesting of Danny's blood against the DNA samples on file for Mr. Herrington. Do you have an issue with that?"

Stephen smirks and says, "No, none at all."

"What? Are you kidding?" I narrow my eyes.

"Leave it alone," whispers Stephen, grabbing the arm of my chair.

I jerk back and raise my arms defensively. He pulls my chair against the frame of his. I scoot to the far side of the seat to avoid his touch.

"What're you doing?"

He leans close to my hair, whispering in my ear. "Let me handle this. Just do as I tell you, and everything will be fine."

I gasp. "What?"

Stephen sits back in his chair. "We have no objections to additional testing."

Mr. Crawford rubs his chin, placing his elbow on the table before pressing the speaker button.

"How may I help you?" A female voice fills the room.

"Lydia." Mr. Crawford says into the console. "Please, call Jeff Peter's medical office. Let them know I need them to come after all. Preferably within the hour to draw Miss Herring's blood."

"Yes, Sir." Lydia's voice emits from the center of the table. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Please, let Sharon know we're ready for her."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Crawford. Is there anything else I may assist you with?"

"No. That will be all for now, thank you."

Sharon Rankin enters the office. Mr. Crawford guides me through various deposition questions about my mother and grandmother.

The phlebotomist enters the room and draws my blood. Within minutes he leaves, taking the vials with him. Sitting in the leather chair, I can't help but feel violated in more ways than one.

Once Sharon leaves the office, Mr. Crawford and Drake leave the room. I jump out of the chair, calling after Mr. Crawford, apparently, the only sane man in the room, asking him about the restroom again. The thought of sitting in a room alone with Stephen is unnerving. I stay in the bathroom, gathering my thoughts. The handle jiggles. A woman's voice rings from the other side of the door. After washing my hands, I step into the hallway. The closer I come to the office, the tighter my chest constricts.