Chapter Thirty-Two

Thirty-Two

"Sunny," Sky said, raising her good arm to greet me. "I'm so happy to see you." She'd been moved to a hospital room—a very nice one. Private, on a high floor. I wondered if the Welches had pulled a few strings to secure it. They were both in the room with Sky, Lydia hovering around her like an attentive mother, Bill sitting in a chair against the wall, where he was quietly taking phone calls when I came in.

Sky wore a hospital gown, her bloody clothes with police for testing. She was very pale, but otherwise she looked good, considering. The bullet had apparently struck her just below her right collarbone. A few inches to the left and she'd have died as quickly as Trevor, but as it stood, she was in good shape. She was hooked up to IVs, her right shoulder and arm were wrapped in thick gauze, and she was scheduled to be released later in the day—the following morning at the latest.

"Our driver is ready to take her home, whenever she's discharged." Lydia looked at Sky. "I bought you a suit at Saks to wear home. Gucci. I know it's not quite your style, but I couldn't resist."

"Thank you, Lydia," Sky said. "You really didn't have to do that." She sounded exhausted, and I felt for her—in more ways than one. I'd been shot before. I'd also been in the hospital before, repeatedly. And I couldn't imagine having to force an immobile, heavily bandaged shoulder and traumatized body into a Gucci suit.

Bill was talking on his phone, saying something about rescheduling an annual shareholders' meeting. Lydia shushed him. He stood up and turned away from us, speaking more quietly.

"Have you guys been here the whole time?" I asked.

"Since she's been conscious, yes," Lydia said.

I nodded. That explained a lot. "You were here when the police questioned Sky."

"Yes. They asked us to leave so they could speak to her privately, but she didn't want us to. She insisted. She was quite emphatic, weren't you? I was concerned about your heart rate."

"Sky didn't want privacy?"

"No," Sky said. "I didn't."

I turned to her. "Would you be able to speak with me alone?"

Sky glanced at Lydia.

"We all trust you, Sunny," Lydia said. "But why do you want to speak with her without us in the room?"

"It's all in the interest of getting Dylan home safe and sound," I said.

Lydia opened her mouth, then closed it again. I could almost read her thoughts—wanting me to elaborate and, at the same time, absolutely not wanting me to. "Okay," Lydia said. "Whatever Sky wants."

Sky's gaze was on me. She seemed calm. "Sure," she said. "I'll talk to you, Sunny."

Bill ended his call and turned around. "Ms. Randall, did I hear you say you'd like us out of the room?"

"Just for a little while," I said. "That okay?"

"Better than okay. I'm dying to get out of here." He turned to Sky, a sheepish look on his face. "You know I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"No worries," Sky said, but then a shadow seemed to pass over her. Her features tightened. Dread, I thought. Or it could have been a wave of pain from her injury. "Should I get a nurse?" I asked. "Do you need meds?"

Sky shook her head. "I'm fine," she said. "I'll be fine. Go ahead, you guys."

Lydia and Bill left the room. I pulled the chair up to Sky's bed. There was a pitcher of water on the bedside table, along with an empty plastic cup. I took the liberty of refilling it for her. She picked it up and drank.

Before I spoke, I waited for Sky to put down the empty cup. Then I leaned in and gave her a smile.

"A Gucci suit?" I said. "Is she serious?"

Sky let out a laugh. "Yeah, I like to think I can handle any challenge, but come on."

"What about the shoes?"

"She brought me these pumps with three-inch stiletto heels," Sky said.

"Ouch."

"I couldn't even walk in those things on a good day."

"I can go to your apartment if you want," I said. "Pick up some sweats and sneakers?"

"God, I'd love that," Sky said. "But I don't want to…you know. Offend Lydia."

"We can tell her that you want to leave the hospital incognito," I said. "There's probably press out there by now, and you'd turn a lot more heads in a Gucci suit and heels."

Sky's face brightened. "That's a genius idea."

I smiled. "I have them sometimes."

Sky asked if I could pour her some more water. I did. She took a few sips, her shoulders relaxing. "Okay," she said. "What do you want to know?"

I gave her a look. "I think that's pretty obvious."

"What do I remember about getting shot?"

"Bingo."

"I already went over this with the police," she said.

"I know," I said. "Tell me, though. As a friend—a friend who is not law enforcement, and who just asked Bill and Lydia to leave the room so you can speak freely."

She nodded. "I understand," she said. "I just…I need to think."

"There's no hurry," I said. "Try and remember everything you can. Don't stop yourself from saying anything."

She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "Do I start with when I got shot?"

"Maybe start with when you told the Welches' butler that you were going to be late for lunch."

She blinked a few times. "Oh, right," she said. "I almost forgot about that."

"Tell me what was going on."

She stared up at the ceiling for a long while. Then, finally, she began to speak. "So everybody had left for the office Christmas party. I'd planned on going, too—just to put in an appearance before heading over to Bill and Lydia's. But I'd…I'd gotten a phone call."

"From who?" I asked.

"A reporter," she said. "She wanted to ask me about the death of that lab tech."

"Trevor Weiss."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Trevor."

"I didn't realize the press knew about that so soon."

"Yeah, I was surprised, too," she said. "I'd only heard about it myself last night. The police asked me about him."

"Yes. Me too."

"Anyway, I told Balthazar it was just office business because I didn't want to upset the Welches. You know?"

I nodded.

"So I talked to the reporter for a little while, and by the time I was done, I knew I wasn't going to be able to drop by the party," she said. "I started turning off lights and shutting down my computer. Getting ready to leave for the Welches'."

"So the lights in your office were off, like you told the police."

"Yes. They were…" She took another swallow of her water. "I…I heard the door to my office open wider, and I turned around and he was standing in the doorway…this person. He was wearing a hoodie, I think."

"You couldn't see his face?"

"No," she said quietly. "I couldn't. It was dark. The hood was basically covering his face…It was scary."

She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes starting to glisten. Sky seemed broken—bandaged on one side, hooked up to IVs on the other. She looked tired, too. Frail, just from the act of remembering.

I noticed something on the bed then, resting against Sky's bad side, her bandaged side. A hint of jade green, bordered in gold. I recognized it immediately. Her mother's compact. Maurice must have brought it to her. She's had a lot of visitors.

"Sky," I said. "I'm going to ask you a question. It isn't an easy one. It will probably hurt. But for your sake, and ultimately for Dylan's, I need you to answer honestly."

Sky closed her eyes. "All right. Shoot." She winced. "God, talk about a poor choice of words."

"You're ready?

"Yes."

"Okay," I said. "Is there any reason why Dylan Welch would want you dead?"

Sky shut her eyes tighter. Tears seeped out of the corners. She stretched her good arm across her body and plucked the compact off the bed, clutching it like a rosary in that one small hand, twirling it in her fingers, bringing it to her cheek. "I don't know," she said. I glanced at the monitor. Her heart rate was steady.

"Do you think he's capable of trying to kill you?"

"I don't know." Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her. I hated doing this, but I had to.

"Remember, Sky," I said. "This is me you're talking to. The Welches aren't here. I won't tell them."

Her jaw tightened; the fist of her good hand clenched. "You promise?"

"Yes," I said.

She exhaled shakily, opening her eyes again. They were thick with tears now, a few slipping down the sides of her face. Again, I told her it was okay, that I wouldn't tell Dylan's parents.

And then, finally, she spoke. "I told you about that fight we had before he left," she said. "When he locked himself in his office? Remember?"

"Yes."

"I told you it was because he was using. And he was. But that was only part of it. He'd stolen from the company. I know the Welches told you, but I saw the discrepancy in the numbers before Martin did, and it was a lot more than he knew. For weeks, I kept quiet. I was moving money around, trying to fix it. I was even putting some of my own personal savings into payroll, just to make up for the loss, but it was getting out of control. And I knew it was going to drugs. Weapons of self-destruction. That's what Dylan used to call the stuff he did, back when we were in college. I wonder if he remembers that…I mean, he really did want to destroy himself. He was aware of it."

I remembered Dylan's letter to Rhonda. The way he'd spiraled following Daisy's death, taking his guilt out on himself, on other people like Teresa.

Sky cleared her throat, clutching the compact tighter. "Anyway, I brought it up to Dylan and…I've never seen him like that. He can be awful when he's backed into a corner."

"I know."

"I didn't, though…not really…Not until that day. He got this look on his face…like a wild animal…"

More tears spilled down her cheeks. I went looking around the room for Kleenex. I didn't see any, so I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a wad of toilet paper. Sky accepted it gratefully, holding the pile of tissue up to her eyes for several seconds before finally she was able to speak again. I looked at the monitor. Her heart rate sped up slightly. "For the first time, I was…I was scared of him, Sunny. I realized, I mean…I honestly have no idea what he's capable of."

I thought of the Murderer texts Dylan had received, the idea that he might have killed someone else before Trevor. Before he tried to kill Sky. Not to make assumptions. We never make assumptions. But still, it was compelling. "Sky," I said carefully. "Are you sure you didn't see his face? The man who shot you?"

She shook her head. And then she started to cry again. Harder now, her body quaking from the sobs, the compact clutched in her hands. Her heart rate grew faster. I told her to relax, to breathe. She held the toilet paper up to her face and I ran to grab more for her—a giant wad of tissue, practically the rest of the roll—and she sobbed into it, her shoulders heaving, as though what she was feeling, this grief, this horror, had suddenly grown big enough to consume her. I moved closer to her bed and she buckled onto me, her good arm around my back. I stroked her hair and told her it was okay, because I didn't know what else to do. She cried more and I kept trying to comfort her, horrified at the thought of anyone walking in—a nurse or, worse yet, the Welches, Lydia shrieking at me, What have you done to her?

Again, I told Sky to breathe deeply, and she did. I gave her water and sat back down on the chair, Sky holding my hand along with the Bakelite compact—so tightly, I was afraid she'd break it. Or my hand. Or both.

At long last, she calmed down. She closed her eyes. Her heart rate slowed. I watched her for a while, unsure of how to phrase the next question. I was worried she'd start sobbing again, but I had to say it. I needed to know. "Sky," I said. "If you didn't see his face, why that response? What was it that you remembered to make you cry like that?"

"His voice," she whispered. "I heard his voice." She took a deep breath and looked straight at me, her eyes now dry as stones. "Right before he shot me, I heard Dylan's voice."