"Who's Juliette?" a nurse teased the other day. "You say her name all the time in your sleep."

I shake my head, wondering if I said anything else aloud. I'm fighting a deep, aching sadness that's at war with the pain inside my body. Not being able to get in touch with Juliette is almost as painful as my shrapnel wounds.

I've asked repeatedly for a laptop or tablet, but because I've been in a telemetry unit, no Wi-Fi is allowed. And it's not like I made it a priority to grab my phone when I was almost blown to bits. Hell, I don't remember anything between when Zoe handed me her bag and about three weeks after, when I was brought out of the coma — although the nurses keep telling me I mumbled a few words in my fugue state.

It's been almost three months since the bombing, and I'm slowly regaining strength. My arms are healed, my internal organs are on the mend, my concussion is gone. Pain in varying forms, on several different parts of my body, is ever-present.

Mentally, I still have foggy days, although they're becoming fewer each week.

I'm trying to refuse most painkillers now. Those things made me feel underwater for at least a month. It seems more like a year. Time in a hospital has a way of slipping past. Every day is grey-white, marked only by the routine of pills, blood draws and therapy.

Today, I'm being moved to a rehab wing, where I can do more physical therapy and get well enough for release. The doctors say I have a month left here. They're being thorough because I'm part of their research study.

I'm still weak as shit, scrawny like a teenager and pale. So pale. Mirrors are things to be avoided.

The doctors assure me I'm doing better than average and that I'll eventually recover fully. On most days, I believe them, but the pain from the bomb shrapnel in my legs occasionally makes me clench my jaw so hard that I think my molars will split in two.

I'm grateful for the doctors and nurses here, and that's why I'm not breaking out — although I'm itching to leave. In some ways, this hospital and the people here have showed me a kindness that almost no one else in my life has. They keep asking when my American family and friends will come to get me.

I just shake my head. "You don't want to know about my family or friends," I say.

Really, they don't.

Today's journey to the rehab wing is the longest walk I've taken in months. Dr. Janssen encourages me to look around the state-of-the art facility. I share my room with a guy — he's not in there when I enter — and his nightstand and bureau are covered with framed photos of a woman and kids.

The orderly puts my meager belongings on a chair, and Dr. Janssen waves her hand in the air. "I'll get someone to show you the computer room. We've put a few machines there, in case our patients can't bring their own laptop or tablet, or don't have one."

I'm learning the Dutch are big on giving everyone opportunities, poor and rich alike. The most amazing thing is that the hospital has barely asked for cash due to their universal health care system—and because this is a teaching hospital, my case is being studied in real-time by a dozen students who are specializing in mass casualty injuries.

I don't quite understand the generosity, and the doctors here assure me I'll eventually get a bill — all while thanking me profusely for being a guinea pig.

All I know is if I get access to my Swiss bank account, I plan on donating a fat check to this place. As much as I want to leave this country where I almost died, I admire their style. Maybe they'll name a wing after Finn Davidson.

I break out in a grin when the orderly shows me the computer room, and instructs me in broken English how to access the Internet. There are three gleaming new Apple computers with giant screens, and I've never been so excited to see a keyboard in my life.

Finally. My connection to the real world.

To Zoe and Juliette.

I know I'm getting better because for the last couple of days, I've woken up with a hard-on after dreaming about Juliette. If I can reach my girl today, maybe she can fly here by the weekend...I practically groan out loud, thinking about holding her in my arms.

Sitting in the hard office chair feels weird on my aching muscles. My heart starts to pound as I launch Internet Explorer. All of my old habits come back, like downloading Tor so I can browse anonymously. From there, I click on my usual email site that keeps my accounts encrypted and anonymous.

My instinct is to email Zoe and Juliette right away, but I need to be cautious.

First, I have to see if there are any news stories about the bombing. Maybe then I can piece everything together. The most important question: Is Griffin Davis wanted?

If so, I'll have to pretend being Finn Davidson even when I get out of this hospital.

I search my name and my stomach drops when I read the months-old articles. The most thorough one that I can understand is from an English-language newspaper here in The Netherlands.

I pause, my hand frozen on the computer mouse.

Memories of that night, before the meeting, flood my brain.

"Ah hell," Zoe said from the passenger seat, an unlit cigarette between her lips. She was digging around in her satchel, probably for a light.

"What?" I was in back, annoyed that Zoe was going to smoke in the car. Matthew was driving the tiny Peugeot, silent as always.

"I forgot to put this in the locker at the airport. You'd handed it to me when we got off the airplane, when you were cleaning out your wallet." She holds up my Florida driver's license. "I'd stuffed it in my purse and forgot about it."

I groaned. "Oh, fuck. I've got my fake passport on me. I don't want to carry both. Just stuff the license in the glove compartment. I'll get it after the meeting. Don't let me forget."

Jesus, that's me.

Ah, so the old man thinks I'm dead. Christ. I'm not sure how to feel about this. Dad and I had a rocky relationship from the time my mother died — almost immediately, he'd brought home his secretary, and she soon became his girlfriend. I hated him for that.

I also hated him for playing fast and loose with the law at a time when we needed him. For going to prison instead of being a dad to two teenagers.

Fuck him. I've got bigger things to worry about than the past. My chest is heavy and the pain in my legs has returned for the first time today. I sigh and read on.

The story hits me like a heavy blow to the gut.

Matthew's dead. Paul's dead. I'm supposed to be dead. I realize with horror that the body burned beyond recognition — the one that was supposed to be me — was the Chinese ecstasy dealer. He was a real shadowy character. Menacing. I was certain that the name I knew him by wasn't the name he traveled under.

It wasn't like officials would even know he came into the country. Or died there.

I wonder why authorities couldn't identify him through dental records, but then I remember: he didn't have teeth.

I read the article twice, each horrific detail sinking into my very pores. Then I click on a few others, and they're all basically the same. Three men dead. A body burned beyond recognition. An Amsterdam man with ties to drug dealing was injured, and a man walking by was hurt.

One body is buried in a pauper's grave.

Matthew. Matthew's dead.

I read his name, over and over, my eyes becoming slicker. Seeing it in black and white makes my throat thick, and I have to press my fingers into my eyes to keep from crying.

He was like my brother. Fuck. I fight the urge to punch the wall.

I look away from the computer, willing myself not to bawl. I'm the only one in this little room, but I can't let myself fall to pieces. Not now. Not when I've got so much to face.

Namely, where the hell is Zoe? There's no mention in the articles of a woman, anywhere. The paper only said that three men died, and two men were injured.

Is she home?

I click over to my private email. She's the only one who has this address. It's so private that I don't even get spam.

Nothing. Zero. Zip.

I scrub my face with my hands. This was supposed to be where we'd communicate if things went wrong. She has a private email on this network as well; we'd set up these email accounts years ago.

Where is my sister?

Could she be hurt? In this very hospital? It seems unlikely. Wouldn't the papers have mentioned a woman who was injured?

When I get out of here, I need to find Paul's right-hand guy, the one who was injured. I hope he hasn't been arrested.

I take a deep breath. Focus. Focus on something else.

Juliette.

I've been thinking about her nonstop, even in my opioid-fueled dreams.

My angel.

If I call her, will the DEA be monitoring her phone? Or her email?

I tap over to Instagram first, hoping she's posted something about her life. Dammit. She's deleted her account. I click over to Facebook, using a ghost account I'd created in the days when I'd crushed on her. She's not there, either. Same with Snapchat.

Is she hiding from prying eyes? Or something worse?

I click over to an encrypted phone service, similar to Skype, and look over my shoulder at the door. There's no one else around, and I can probably risk making a quick call to her phone.

The online service allows me to check the microphone and speaker, and thankfully, both are working on this computer. I hesitantly tap her number.

"The number you have reached has been disconnected," the mechanical voice says.

What?

I dial again and get the same recording. I know it's her number. I haven't forgotten it. Or have I? Is my mind playing tricks on me? I know I had a concussion, but the doctors said I'm lucky the long-term memory part of my brain was untouched.

I'll try the condo. It's reckless, but maybe the concierge can get a message to her. I search for the building's name, and a sleek website pops up. I scrawl the number on a nearby pad of paper, then return to the phone service.

"Lumina," an efficient female voice answers.

"Hello, I'd like to get in touch with a Ms. Juliette Phillips," I say in the deepest voice I can muster. "She's in Unit 2108. I'd like you to give her a message."

"One moment, sir." I hear her Miami-Cuban accent and am instantly homesick.

I break out into a sweat. Is this the point where they're tracing the line, calling the DEA, flagging the IP address?

"I'm sorry sir, I was going to take a message for you, but we have no record of anyone living in that unit. Miss Phillips moved out months ago. That unit is empty."

I hang up.

Juliette left the condo a couple of days after the bombing.

That unit is empty.

Where is she?

Something is wrong. I can feel it. My breathing becomes labored, and I try to calm down by looking out a tiny window at the grey, rainy Amsterdam day. Every day is grey here. I can't wait to get back home to sunshine and palm trees and hot weather.

I need to know where Juliette is.

Victoria. She'll know what the hell's going on.

Clicking back to my encrypted email, I peck out a short message.

Vee-

An urgent situation has come up. Can you please respond to this email with a number where I can reach you?

Your childhood friend.

Hopefully that will be enough to tip her off that it's me. She's going to kill me when she finds out I've been alive all this time. So is Juliette.

The computer pings, and I squint at the screen. The email to Victoria comes back undelivered.

No such email address.

Against my better judgment, I try Victoria's phone. Three times.

It's been disconnected, too.

Fuck. Where's Vee? Where's Juliette? What's going on back home? Where the hell is my sister?

I try Juliette's phone again. Clenching my fist at the robotic voice, I shut my eyes.

Am I missing something important, unable to grasp some key piece of information because I'm still on pain pills? Because I suffered a concussion?

Maybe I should call Ash. He'll know where Juliette and Zoe are. I exhale with relief. Of course. The two of them have gone to Jacksonville to be with Ash.

I search for his hospital, dial, and ask for Ashton.

"I'm sorry sir, but he's no longer here."

"Can you tell me where he went? Is he alive?" My voice rises in panic.

"Under privacy laws I cannot, sir."

I gulp in a breath. Of course, Ashton wouldn't still be in the hospital. It's been months. He's probably at home.

Or, or...

I can't bring myself to think of the alternative.

The next half hour is spent searching for Ash online, and I only discover old articles and photos about him at protests. He's dropped off the face of the earth, along with Juliette, Victoria and Zoe. When I try to remember the name of the firm where Juliette and Ash's mom works, I come up blank.

The door to the little room opens, and a woman about my age hobbles in. She's using a cane to help steady her, and she shoots me a smile and says something in Dutch. At least I think it's Dutch. I mumble a hello and turn back to the screen.

I don't want to risk contacting any of my old drug acquaintances, in case there's been a massive raid or some shit. And what if someone's talked to the feds? Have my assets been seized? The press has already named me as a dead ecstasy dealer. I need to call my attorney, but I can't now that this woman's here.

My stomach plummets. What if Juliette, Vee and Zoe were arrested because of me?

The woman next to me sinks into a chair at the end of the long table. There's one computer between us. I glance over and see her staring at me. Probably because I'm sweating despite the subzero temperature in this hospital. I move my chair so I'm a little further away. This room feels unbearably claustrophobic now.

Breathing hard, I plug Victoria's name into Google. I don't know why; probably because of the three women, she's the most likely to get into trouble. She's got her hands in too many cookie jars, between the drugs and the escort business and God knows what else at this point.

I see a few mentions in Miami's scene magazines, about her going to a fundraiser with some DJ and from a party sponsored by a brand of rum. There are photos, of course, with her grinning for the camera, surrounded by coked-up looking older guys.

Typical Vee.

Then a Miami Herald article, dated a couple of days ago, pops up.

Fucking Vee. Do I know her, or what? As I click, I can tell that this isn't going to be a story about how the mayor of Miami gave her a key to the city.

I groan out loud, then see the woman with the cane staring again.

"Sorry," I grunt. The woman, who is blonde and a little cute with a turned-up nose and freckles, grins at me.

I'm in no mood to flirt, and stare hard at the screen. Vee's been arrested for basically running a brothel. Advertising her girls in the city's alt-weekly.

The Miami Madam, a smaller headline says. Reading those words almost makes me laugh, but I know the situation is serious. Vee wasn't careful. I'd always cautioned her about taking out ads. She should've kept doing it on the down low, like I told her...

I continue reading the article, hoping it will give me a clue. A few of her girls were arrested, too, and I don't recognize any of the names until I get to the very last.

I blink several times as I feel my heart freeze.

Juliette Phillips.

____