Chapter 38

Laura

December

The next morning, I wake with a start. My mouth is dry, cottony. I taste something unfamiliar in my mouth. Blood. I try to move, but blinding pain sears through me.

My shoulder.

I think I'm going to vomit. Adrenaline surges, and my eyes pop open. With the light comes awareness. Memories of last night fall into my head like flakes of ash.

I wanted to leave Theo there, but Mel wouldn't allow it. "Someone will find him, and they'll see what's happened to him. The cops would open a murder investigation. It's too risky."

"What about the river?" I suggested.

"They'd still find him. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but they will."

I couldn't believe we were discussing ways to get rid of my former boyfriend's body. It felt surreal. How was Mel thinking so calmly? I was still in shock. I kept telling myself it was all a nightmare.

We eventually put Theo in the suitcase I still had in my minivan. Mel told me about a new property Jack had bought over by Killer's Grove. He planned to extend his property development site, she told me, but first he needed to finish the current property development, and that could take years.

"They'll never find the body. Jack hires a junk removal company that takes everything inside the house to the dump."

We wrangled the suitcase with Theo's body into the back of my minivan, then circled around to look for Theo's gun.

I was crying, every breath ripping out of me in panicked chunks. My legs were like rubber as I staggered over the slippery boulders. I felt dizzy, the rain pummeling my head, blurring my vision.

That's when I slipped. My feet flew out from underneath me, and I smashed against the sharp edges of the rocks. I bounced, my body flopping like a rag doll until I landed in the mud. I knew instantly I'd hurt my shoulder. Seriously.

When I finally got home, the adrenaline was wearing off and the pain kicking in. I pinched one of Pete's old Vicodin from a root canal a few years ago, but it's completely worn off now.

When I look down at my body, I see it's covered in bruises, gnarly purple splotches and bloody lacerations splattered over my arms and legs.

Pete appears in the doorway, a coffee in hand. "You got in late," he teases. "You look worse than I was last night."

I don't move. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through my teeth so it doesn't hurt as bad. Pete mistakes my silence for anger.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. "I drank too much. I ... I've been doing it a lot lately, and I know there's no excuse. It's just become a ... a habit. A crutch. But I'm going to stop, I swear."

He sets the coffee on my bedside table and sits next to me. I scream as pain jolts through my arm.

Alarm flares in his eyes, and he jumps back. "Shit, Laur, are you okay?"

"I fell." I'm breathing heavily. "Outside the bar. I was drunk, and I slipped and fell. I think I've done something to my shoulder."

"We should get you to the hospital."

"No!"

Pete frowns. "Are you sure?"

My saliva is thick. It's hard to swallow. Hard to focus. I can't stop myself.

I bend over the edge of the bed and vomit onto the floor.

There's no arguing with Pete. He's taking me to the hospital.

When he leaves to grab my shoes and coat, I text Mel and tell her my falling-outside-the-bar story.

Don't answer any of their questions , she replies. And act normal.

Pete tells the girls I had a fall and need to have a doctor check me out. I can see their worried faces peering out of the living room at me.

He drops by Mrs. McCormack's and asks her to keep an eye on them, telling her I've fallen and hurt my shoulder. She's on her front porch looking in my direction when I slip into the car. Even from this distance, I can see her face is disapproving. I know what she's thinking: that Pete's done this. That he's an abuser. I don't have the energy to even raise my hand and assure her that he isn't.

The torrential rain from last night still hasn't eased. The world is slate gray, streetlights reflecting in pools of water that stand on the street.

At the hospital, I find out what Mel meant.

Don't answer any of their questions

Their questions quickly become pointed. They think Pete is abusing me.

Pete keeps a tender arm on my knee, baffled by the nurse's cold-eyed glares. I'm in so much pain I can barely think. I lean against Pete, hoping to absorb some of his composure.

They separate us, calling me back to a small cubicle in the ER while insisting Pete stays in the waiting room. They question me carefully, discreetly. I notice my fingernails are ragged, mud wedged under the nails. One has torn completely off. The nail bed is bleeding. The nurse doesn't believe my injuries came from a simple fall on wet pavement. The lacerations tell a different story. I'm glad Pete doesn't hear.

I'm given some painkillers and sent for an X-ray. I return to my cubicle and wait some more. I can't stop thinking about Theo. The shots. The way his body jolted. The black blood oozing from him. Folding his body into that suitcase.

Theo betrayed me, but he doesn't deserve to be dead.

I can't stand it. The guilt ravages me.

I am a murderer.

A tall, severe-looking woman in a pristine lab coat enters, informing me my X-ray shows I have a dislocated shoulder. She gives me more painkillers. Stronger ones. The same severe-looking woman returns. The pain when she sets the shoulder is blinding. I nearly pass out, but the relief is instant.

She tells me I need another X-ray to make sure the bone is fully in place, so I wait some more. When the door next opens, it's another woman. She introduces herself as a social worker with the hospital.

"My husband is not beating me," I assure her.

She doesn't believe me.

I don't care about the X-ray or even the painkillers. I need to get out of here before something slips.

After the social worker leaves, I sneak out of the room.