I hate this heart monitor.
I know that’s a weird thing to say because it’s reminding me that I’m still alive, but after four days of relentless, methodical beeping, it’s driving me crazy.
Four days. That’s how long I’ve been awake. I’ve been in this hospital for eight days, but I was out for the first four.
I remember being shot. I remember lying on the floor of the cottage. I remember the sounds of the footsteps and voices coming towards me, but that’s it.
Then, it was all dreams and oblivion.
I wandered around all the places from my life: my childhood, Laura’s dorm, Mattie’s house, the warehouse, my parents’ funeral, The Hollows. Everywhere I went, I was the last person on Earth, haunting my own memories. Every place was quiet, except for the occasional random voice from somewhere in the distance. Some of them I recognized: Laura, Sandy, my father, Rachel. Others were alien, forceful voices shouting things I couldn’t understand.
Finally, after feeling as though I had wandered for years, I ended up in the cottage, standing over the first and only person I encountered on my travels: myself, bleeding out on the cottage floor. Then, everything went black.
I could have stayed there. Enveloped in nothing, but then I started to hear this rhythmic sound from somewhere in the distant darkness. It grew louder and louder and the blackness around me grew lighter and lighter.
That’s when I opened my eyes.
The first thing I saw and heard was the heart monitor.
The light in the hospital room was blinding. There was a mask over my nose and mouth and a tube going down my throat. I panicked and tried to move, but my body wouldn’t respond. I could only slightly shift my weight, which caused me to be nauseous.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Jacob,” the doctor said in a soothing tone from my bedside. “I’m Dr Jensen. This is Nurse Hemmings.” He nodded to the middle-aged nurse on the other side of the bed and continued, “It’s best if you don’t try to move, okay?”
The panic subsided. I realized that I must have been drugged up to my eyeballs.
Dr Jensen held up a small whiteboard and placed it on the bed at my side. He then took out a marker. “Now, I don’t want you to try to talk but we do need to communicate a little, okay?”
I lightly nodded.
He put the marker in my hand, which I realized I had some control over, and placed it on the whiteboard.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.
I ignored his question and wrote ‘Murphy’ in a comical looping script because my fingers only slightly followed my brain’s commands.
“He’s fine,” Dr Jensen said. “He’s with your friend, Sandy. She’s keeping an eye on him.”
A flood of relief swept over me.
“Do you remember being shot?”
‘Yes’, I wrote.
Dr Jensen proceeded to explain to me that the bullet had been a wrecking ball to my guts. Those are my words, not his. I lost a lot of blood and almost cashed out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. They operated on me for almost sixteen hours to repair the damage and it had been touch and go the whole time. They were finally able to stabilize me but had to put me into a medically induced coma, hence my around the world travels.
They removed the tube two days ago. I’m still on a drip for my nutrients and I’ve been told that I’m off solid foods for a while. For four days, I’ve been lying on this bed with nothing to do but think and turn over every moment that led me here. After a few hours, you just accept the catheter and the bedpan and the sponge baths and the constant blood draws and the overly enthusiastic ‘How We Doin’?s’ from the nurse. She’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not in the mood.
I know the police are going to want to talk to me. As soon as they took out the tube, it was only a matter of time. I still can’t really move, but I am starting to talk, even if it is barely above a whisper.
I’m alive.
I fought my way here. I convinced Rachel to let Murphy go. I convinced her that I didn’t kill Laura, but I did play a part in her death, and for that, she gave me a chance, and I beat it. It could have easily gone the other way. Rachel made a decision and let the chips fall where they may … and I beat it. I got my life back.
But now, I have a choice to make and I’ve done nothing but turn it over in my mind for the past four days because it’s going to determine what type of life I’m going to get back.
When the police come to talk to me, I can do one of two things.
I can tell them everything: Laura, Mattie, Reggie, Rachel, all of it. I can come clean and finally get this off my chest. I don’t know what comes after that, but I could stop hiding. I could stop looking over my shoulder. The nightmares would stop. The downside would be jail. I don’t know for how long. I did kill Reggie. That would have to come out. Maybe I could argue it was self-defense. I have no idea if it would work. I don’t want to go to jail. Not at all. The thought of being locked up for an indeterminate amount of time for whatever they charge me with terrifies me, but this would all be over, and not just for me. Mrs Aisling and Amy could start to move on, too.
Which brings me to my other option: I can keep going.
There’s nothing that really ties me to Rachel or Laura or Reggie. I can plead ignorance. I don’t think Veronica or the rental car guy would want to get involved. They probably won’t even hear of this. Maybe Amy would, but that’s a risk I have to take. I also don’t think Mrs Aisling is a very reliable witness. I can lie all over again and say Rachel was a crazy woman who thought I killed Laura. They’ll have the records and I don’t think Dr Cavanaugh would tell them about my visit. They also have Rachel’s dead parents. I can be one of her victims who just got lucky.
Once it all blows over, I can rebuild my life, leave The Hollows, and maybe start another coffee shop in some other perfect New England town, but the doubt would always be there. What if Rachel left a clue? What if I’m wrong and there is something to connect me to everything? How much worse would it be when they put the handcuffs on me then, rather than if I confess, now? But what if I can keep going, get through this, and it’ll all be over? But how would I know it was really over? The answer is that I won’t. I’ll be free, but the guilt and the nightmares will continue, and the looks over my shoulder might be more frequent.
It’s all I can think about in between the sponge baths, ice-chip lunches, and the incessant beeping of this fucking heart monitor. Yes, my heart is beating but it’s a constant reminder that the time to make a decision is running out.
*
I know.
I know the moment Dr Jensen walks through the door two days later that the time has come.
As he steps in, he tries to open it only enough to get through so that I won’t see into the hallway, but of course I do, and there they are. Two of them, wearing suits and serious demeanors.
“Good morning, Jacob,” Dr Jensen says, closing the door behind him. “How are we feeling, today?”
I want to ask, ‘Who’s we?’ but instead give him the truth. “A little better.”
My voice is slightly stronger than yesterday, and the pain is a little duller.
“Good, good,” he says and hesitates. “Listen, there are some men here to see you. They’re detectives. They’d like to ask you some questions. I said I would ask you if you’re feeling up to it. You can say ‘no’ and I’ll send them away. I personally don’t think it’s best for you, right now, but it’s your call. Do you want to talk to them?”
“It’s okay,” I answer.
I don’t need any more time. I’ve made my decision. Let’s get this show on the road.
Dr Jensen lightly shakes his head in resignation before turning and going back to the door. He opens it as I attempt to sit up a little more in the bed, which hurts like hell.
The two guys step into the room. One’s got a tight crew cut and carries himself in a way that screams ex-military. The other is balding and heavyset with bloodshot eyes. They take up positions at the foot of the bed and wait for Dr Jensen to leave.
“Five minutes,” Dr Jensen says, sternly. “That’s all you get, for now.” He then turns to me. “If there’s any trouble, simply ring for the nurse,” he says with a nod to the button mounted to the railing of the bed. He gives one last look to the detectives as he walks past them and steps into the hall.
The detectives wait until the door closes and then look at me. I can’t tell if they suspect or pity me. Ex-military guy is a stone and even Old Bleary Eyes is inscrutable.
“Mr Reese,” Ex-military begins. “I’m Detective McDougall. This is Detective Simmons.” Old Bleary Eyes dips his chin. “We know that this has been an incredible ordeal for you, but we’d like to ask you some questions. Is that okay with you?”
I lightly nod.
Detective McDougall takes out a notepad and a pen. He clicks the end, which brings out the point, and poises it over the paper. “First off, can you tell us what happened?”
I glance back and forth between them.
I look at the tip of Detective McDougall’s expectant pen, waiting for my answer.
I take a breath … and begin.
If Dark Hollows kept you gripped, don’t miss Steve Frech’s Secrets to the Grave, another unputdownable crime thriller. Available now!
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