A noise sounds in the back of my throat as I step up to the side of the bed.
She’s still here. She fought.
That fucker is lying in the morgue, but she’s still breathing.
“Em,” I breathe finally. A hard blue plastic chair is next to her, and I settle myself into it. Searching her battered face. Her eyelids are swollen beyond recognition, blue bruising surrounding them that I know is only going to get worse before it heals. Her right cheekbone is swollen too, her scars barely standing out among the patchwork of pain across her skin.
My eyes travel over the black marks dusting her throat like a collar. They look huge against her pale skin.
Fingerprints.
I wish Arron Matthews wasn’t already dead.
“Emmy.” Her hair is a nest of tangled brown rope against the white pillow, and I carefully push a strand back that hangs over her eyes, careful not to touch the skin. “Hey, baby.”
A croak. My cheeks feel wet.
“I’m sorry.” My hand slips down past the blue hospital gown until my fingers brush hers. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
Even her hand is bruised.
Em’s breathing is steady, the soft rise and fall of her chest a rhythm that I focus on as I sit there and wait. And I talk to her.
I tell her everything. Everything in my heart. The pain. The grief.
And how I feel about her.
“I need you to wake up, Em.” My index finger softly strokes her pinky. “I swear to you that I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
I’ll spend the rest of my life watching over you, even if you don’t wantme.
Just wake up.
Hours later, my voice is hoarse.
“I think Geraldine is broken.” She doesn’t move. “You reckon if I fix her, she won’t curse me? I still dream about that doll, you know.”
Nothing.
“I dream about you too,” I admit roughly. “You seem to have invaded every part of my life, Em. Not that I’m complaining.”
I watch her breathe. “It’s my birthday next week. I don’t even know when yours is. What should I get you?”
“It’s June twelfth.”
Twisting to look at the doorway, I lock eyes with the woman hovering, her hand pressed to her chest.
Em.
An older version, but close to identical. Except this version of Emmy is unscarred, pristine in a cream silk wrap dress and expensive handbag. She has her daughter’s eyes, though.
She looks me over with curiosity, not hiding her assessment. “Who are you?”
“Jared.” My tone isn’t exactly friendly. “I’m…,”
“Hers.” The quiet word takes me by surprise as Emmy’s mother moves her eyes to her daughter, and inhales sharply.
Behind her, I can hear a deeper voice. Demanding to speak to a doctor.
