I WOKE UP in the back of an ambulance, lying on a gurney, my lower half tucked in tight under a white blanket. I took a deep breath.
Finally. Saved. “Hello?”
Someone was speaking up front, on the radio, and chatter came from outside through the gap in the open doors. There was an abbreviated whoop of a siren, not from my ambulance, though.
Another one?
I slid out of the bed and took a few wobbly steps to the back, where I grabbed the edge of one door and stuck my head out.
Flashing red and blue lights lit the night. An ambulance waited about fifty yards away behind the two law enforcement vehicles. Beside it, a gurney with a white-sheet-covered body.
Peg?
My knees threatened to give out, so I made my way back to the bed and lay down.
Was it really over?
Then the entire vehicle gave slightly as Officer Ritchie climbed in, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the roof.
I sat up.
He still looked like he was in pain from Flute Girl’s punch.
“Is she—” My tone came across as sympathetic and kind, so I stopped. I wanted Peg to be dead. Didn’t I?
He nodded once, slow.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“I know.”
“Do they know? The sheriff? Does he know it wasn’t me?”
He held up a hand. “Yes. They know. They know everything.” He handed me my phone. “Sheriff says you dropped this out there.”
I breathed out. “Thanks. And thank you for getting me out of there.”
“If I had let you go the moment I saw you…” He trailed off and looked out the back of the ambulance. “It wouldn’t have come to this.” He sighed; there was a definite shakiness to the sound.
Did he blame himself for her death? He seemed broken up, but not like someone who had lost a loved one. More like someone who seemed equal parts sad and relieved. “I swear to you; I had just spent an hour trying to talk Peg into letting you go, telling her this whole revenge thing was pointless.”
“Oh my God, what revenge? She kept going on and on about me apologizing for something, and I have no idea what it was. I know that we were at a novelist boot camp together, but whatever I said or did to her was a long time ago. I was fourteen!”
Neither of us said anything. Then his eyebrows rose. “We found Wesley locked in the basement. Claimed you attacked him with a knife.”
I shook my head. “Not a knife. The edge of a box of waxed paper.”
Ritchie’s eyes widened. “Really?”
I nodded. “It’s in my purse. Wherever that is. The rest of the wax paper box is in one of the tubs in the basement.”
He tilted his head a little, almost a gesture of respect. “Resourceful.”
“I worked with what I had.”
“I should have gotten you out of there the minute I saw you.” His gaze dropped to his feet.
“What will happen to Wesley?”
“He’s been in trouble before. He did a little time in a court-ordered juvenile home last year for some Internet fraud.”
“And Flu—” I swallowed. “Her daughter?”
He shrugged. “Psych evaluation for sure. After that, she has a father, somewhere. And Peg’s parents may decide to become her guardians.”
I shivered at the thought of Flute Girl out there running around. “She should be in therapy.”
He nodded. “She’ll get the care she needs.”
“What happens to me?”
“The sheriff’s office will question you. And you’ll tell the truth. About everything that happened.”
“I won’t tell them about you seeing me before.” I didn’t know why; I guess I felt I owed him.
“Don’t lie for me.” He looked genuine. And sad. “I made a mistake.”
So he did blame himself for Peg.
“You did the right thing in the end.” I was quiet for a moment, thinking about the danger he’d been in when Flute Girl had the gun. His life had been on the line, too. “What if they don’t believe me?”
“Peg’s not … Peg wasn’t crazy. She just went off the handle. People will believe your story. It wouldn’t be a stretch to believe her capable of something like this. Especially given the backstory.”
Was he talking about the boot camp?
Before I could ask, he handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s my number if you have questions, or need anything.”
Ritchie stayed there a moment, then his belt jangled as he went outside. The vehicle moved slightly as someone else came in, the blond lady who had run into the house earlier. “How you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m out of there, at least,” I said.
She studied my shoulder. “You in pain?”
I nodded. “I rolled my car on Friday. Been here ever since.”
“Okay. We need to get you to Eugene for X-rays, but the ride could get bumpy. I’m going to give you an IV of fentanyl.” She strapped on a pair of white plastic gloves. From a clear-fronted cabinet overhead that ran the length of the vehicle, she plucked out several white packets of different sizes.
“What is that?”
“Fentanyl?” She took my right hand. “Painkiller. Are you allergic to codeine or morphine?”
“I don’t think so. Just bees.”
She pulled down a narrow black jump seat from the side of the ambulance and sat down. First she cleaned the blood off my hand, then opened an alcohol packet and swabbed the back of my wrist. “Are you currently taking any medications?”
“No.”
“Are you pregnant?”
I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Um, no.”
She opened up another packet and a silver needle flashed. I immediately dropped my head away from her and stared at the side of the ambulance. “Little poke here, sweetie.”
A string of fire ran up the back of my hand. I scrunched my eyes shut.
“That slid right in. You okay?”
No words. I wasn’t even in the vicinity of okay.
“Let me get this hooked up.”
I opened my eyes and rolled my head back her way. She put some white tape on the back of my hand and attached a tube to the IV, then hung a plastic bag with clear fluid from a hook on the side of the ambulance. She twisted a little plastic switch on the tubing. “This may make you a little drowsy.”
“Okay.”
She set a hand on my leg. “The officer said your parents are already on their way.”
“Good.” I started to feel light-headed.
She watched me for a moment.
This was as it should have been, me getting help from someone nice who wanted to help me. Only it should have gone that way on Friday, right after I rolled my car.
Another reason to hate Peg. Even though she was dead.
A siren whooped, and I jumped.
The lady pressed down harder on my leg. “Just the other ambulance leaving.”
So Peg was gone.
And they had Flute Girl.
And Wesley.
It was finally over.
They couldn’t hurt me anymore.
The ambulance began to move. The rocking motion sent a jolt of pain up my shoulder, and I winced until the ride smoothed out. The ambulance accelerated. After a few minutes, my eyelids grew heavy.
* * *
I woke up in a hospital room, my left arm in a proper black sling, the throbbing pain that had dogged me for days finally gone. I was in a crisp, fresh-scented light blue hospital gown. The IV tube had disappeared; a bandage covered the back of my hand. I flexed my fingers. “Ow.” The back of my hand felt bruised.
A plastic cup sat beside a yellow plastic pitcher on the little side table hanging over the edge of the bed. I picked up the cup and took a sip. Water. I drained it and shakily poured myself another glass. Gripping the pitcher hurt my hand and more spilled than made it in the cup. Still, I drank what did make it in. My stomach rumbled.
There were voices in the corridor. The door swung open, and my parents plunged into the room. “Oh, thank God, sweetie.” Mom got to me first with a gentle hug, then Dad was at my side so he could kiss the top of my head.
“What happened?” asked Mom.
I shook my head. “Can we talk about something else?”
She glanced at Dad, and then nodded my way. “Of course, sweetheart. We talked to the doctor.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“She,” said my dad. “You had a dislocated shoulder, some strained ligaments, a slight concussion.”
“Anything else?” I rolled my eyes.
“Some bumps and bruises.”
I could have diagnosed those. And I’d been right about the shoulder. Not to mention grateful that I wasn’t awake when they put it back into place. “I want to go home.”
“Later today, if you’re up to it,” said Dad.
I asked, “Can’t we leave now?”
Mom set a hand on mine. “The police are waiting to talk to you when you’re ready.”
I groaned and rested my head against the back of the bed. “Can’t it wait?”
“Better to get it over with.” Mom sat on the edge of the bed beside me. She didn’t say anything else, and neither did Dad.
My stomach rumbled again.
Dad stood up. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
“Check with the nurse first; maybe she’s on a restricted diet,” said Mom.
“No.” I spoke with more authority than ever before. “I haven’t been sick; I’ve been kidnapped. I don’t need special food.”
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
I sat up straight. “What?”
Tears filled Mom’s eyes. “That’s the thing. No one has told us anything. Other than that woman is dead.” Mom shook her head. “Sweetie, what exactly happened?”
I took a deep breath. “The quick and dirty version? I rolled my car. That woman took me to her house and locked me in the basement. She kept me prisoner! She hurt me!”
Mom looked away. Dad put a hand on her shoulder but locked eyes with me. “Hurt you how?”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.” I gestured at my shoulder. The psychological damage wasn’t worth mentioning because it would just make me upset. “I’ll be fine. But I don’t care that she’s dead! She deserved it!”
Mom forced a smile, leaned down toward the floor, then held out a Macy’s bag. “Sweetie? I bought you some clothes to change into. And some toiletries.”
Someone knocked on the door, and Dad went out into the hall. He leaned back in. “The sheriff is here to do the questioning.”
Mom asked, “After this can we take her home?”
Dad left for a second, then came back in and nodded.
“Thank God.” I let out a big sigh and took the bag from my mom. “Can you leave so I can change?”
Mom nodded. “We’ll be right outside. And they’re letting us go out the back, so we can avoid the press.”
“There’s press?” I asked. “How’d they find out?”
“Social media. Someone in the hospital leaked it.”
I pulled out black yoga pants and a long-sleeved red shirt, made of something incredibly soft. With shaking hands, I held them to my face and inhaled. New. Clean. Heaven.
There was also a white sports bra and underwear and a pair of black flip-flops. I ditched the hospital gown and dressed quickly. The clean clothes felt and smelled so good. I hoped to hell my others were gone forever.
I took the bag into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. I was really glad we were going to avoid the press because I still looked like crap.
The shadows under my eyes were gone. The little cuts and the scratch down my cheek had healed more, faded a bit. I found a brush and a package of hair ties, so I did my hair in a sloppy ponytail, best I could manage with one hand. Almost back to normal.
Last was a small bag of toiletries: deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, some new Clinique mascara and gray eye shadow, and a chubby tube of lipstick in my favorite pink. I swiped that over my lips right after I brushed and flossed about nineteen times. I didn’t bother with the rest of the makeup, and just tossed everything back in the bag.
I smiled at myself in the mirror. “Let’s get this over with so I can see Rory.”