Someone pulled me into the hallway. A group of EMTs and police officers stormed past me. One EMT dropped to the floor. Another pulled out bags, shouting. But it was too late.
The gash in her forehead was deep. Clean. Fatal.
No one said the words, but I knew.
Cynthia was dead.
The hallway outside the office was chaos. Shouting. People crying. Police officers barking commands. One of the EMTs pulled me toward the waiting room, hand tight around my wrist, guiding me through the confusion as if I were a child lost in a crowd.
I collapsed into a plastic chair. My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t feel my legs.
A flashlight clicked on, and someone shone it into my eyes. “Are you hurt?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. My mouth was open, but no words came out.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
My lungs were tight. The room swam.
I nodded. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I only thought I did.
None of this felt real. It felt like watching someone else’s nightmare from the back of the room. Like I was floating above my body, numb and detached.
The ringing in my ears hadn’t stopped.
I looked down and saw a blood stain on my shirt. Warm smears of red ran across my body.
Cynthia’s blood.
My friend.
My anchor.
Gone.
Chapter 6
I sat hunched in a stiff vinyl chair, tucked in the corner of one of the many identical emergency rooms that made up the hospital’s endless maze. The walls were a bland beige. A thin, light-blue curtain separated me from the rest of the ER. Through the gap, I could see the crisis counselor speaking quietly with the doctor. Both of them were facing Daniel. He kept glancing over at me, worry etched so deeply into his face it looked like it might remain there forever.
Daniel nodded a few times at whatever they were saying. Then he turned and walked over to me.
Without a word, he gently grabbed my bag off the floor. We’d been in this hospital for hours. Nurses had come in and out. So had doctors, running tests and exchanging observations. The crisis counselor had stopped by a few times. Most of their words didn’t register. They were like voices underwater, distant and muffled. I’d just nod or stare at them with that empty, dead-eyed look people had in movies after something exploded.
I was still wearing the bloody clothes. The fabric clung to me like a memory I couldn’t peel off fast enough. I wanted them gone. I wanted out of this skin.
“They said they could keep you overnight if you want,” Daniel said.
I shook my head. “I want to go home.”
He nodded and held out his hand. I took it.
The drive home blurred past me like a dream I couldn’t hold onto. I didn’t even remember stepping through the grand entrance of our apartment building or greeting Gerald, the doorman. We must have passed him with polite nods and blankfaces. Next thing I knew, we were in our multilevel penthouse in Seaport.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at Boston Harbor. The city lights shimmered, looking like colored stars flung across the water. It was night, deep night, and the world felt both too quiet and too loud.
I was in pajamas. My hair was damp. I’d showered. Sort of. I think Daniel had helped me through most of it. I couldn’t really remember. Everything felt like I’d watched it happen from underwater.
Mochi sat on my shoulder. I hadn’t even noticed him land there.
