AMANDA
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 24
“Amanda? Are you awake, honey?”
My mother’s voice floats through the thick, hot air. My limbs feel heavy, like I took too many sleeping pills. I take a deep breath, and my throat leaps into flames. I gasp, then explode into a series of spluttering coughs. My eyes fly open.
“Here, go slow.” For the second time in as many days, I’m in a hospital room. My mother is pressing a plastic cup with water and ice chips to my lips. I feel a lot worse than I did after having my stomach pumped, and that was god-awful. Slowly, everything starts to come into focus. I prop myself up on my elbows and take a grateful sip.
“How long have I been sleeping?” My voice comes out in a raspy croak, my neck bruised and raw where Carter tried to choke me after the gun wouldn’t fire. “Where’s Carter?”
“He’s in custody, honey. You’re safe now.” She brushes my hair away from my forehead, and I notice her hand is trembling. “It’s three o’clock. You’ve been asleep for a while.”
“It’s Wednesday afternoon?”
She nods. “You went through a lot; your body needed the rest. Your father had a work call. He’ll be back soon.”
I sink into the pillows and try to take another deep breath, slower this time. It still burns, but I manage not to cough. Of course Dad had a work call that couldn’t wait. At least my mother’s here.
“Where’s Rosalie?”
“At home,” she says. “I assume. They discharged her late last night.”
I smile. I thought Rosalie had abandoned me, but she was calling the police, thinking on her feet. She came back for me.
“That girl saved you,” my mother says, echoing my thoughts.
“Are we at Mercy or Presbyterian?” I ask.
“Presby. I was not taking you back to Mercy, not now. . . .” She trails off.
“Not now that you believe me? That I was drugged at the benefit? That my life was really in danger?”
She presses a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. “I had no idea,” she whispers. “I should have listened to you.”
I push myself into a sitting position and adjust the pillow behind my back. My thigh throbs, and my hands are wrapped in bandages. I’m a mess, and in a different way, so is my mother. She may never be as vulnerable again as she is right now. My throat is burning and all I want to do is go back to sleep, but I have to know.
“I learned some things last night. About you and the museum and Winston Shaw’s antique collection. Carter says he has documents. He was going to send them to the media.”
My mother’s eyes get wide. “He was going to do what?”
“So it’s true.” Her face tells me all I need to know—Ben was right. My mother really was padding Winston’s antique gallery from the museum’s private collection in return for his help securing major donors. My heart sinks a little. “Does Dad know?”
“Amanda, let me explain. Your father and I, we each have our secrets. Sometimes, that’s how adult relationships work. They’re messy and complicated, and it’s important—”
“No, let me explain,” I say, cutting her off. “Because if I have this right, it’s really very simple. Winston was using his real estate network to hook the big money for you, and you got all the recognition on the board. In return, the museum would never miss a Restoration-era steeple clock here or a pair of Etruscan serving trays there. When I went to the police, you were scared shitless they’d start digging around. That’s why you didn’t want them to have my phone. That’s why you didn’t want them asking questions.”
“Amanda, honestly, I thought those texts were a prank. I would never—”
“But you did. You derailed the entire police investigation because you were so afraid your scam would get out. You put your reputation before my safety. You almost got me killed!”
My mind flashes to Winston, his boyish delight over his collection, how he had to keep the pilfered items in storage, the little exchanges with my mother that I’d read entirely wrong.
“One more question.” Because I can’t let this rest until I know everything. “N or V. You had an email from Winston in your purse. What do those letters mean?”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Neoclassical. Victorian. It was our code.” Then she bursts into tears, and part of me wants to fold her into my arms and tell her everything’s going to be okay. But then I think back over the last three weeks, the times I wanted nothing more than for her to hold me, take care of me. And she never did. I almost died because of her.
Someday, I’ll be the bigger person. I’ll forgive her. But not today.