“Nice,” Webb says under his breath. I know he’s not talking about the evidence, but how quickly Tyler found the information.
“What did they find?” I ask.
Tyler glances back at his phone. “Fingerprints on the knife. The only fingerprints. Blood all over Beatrix’s hands and shoes. Scratches from the victim that look like defense wounds. And there’s mention of some photos of the victim’s boyfriend in Beatrix’s purse.”
“Bea,” I correct.
I’m not sure why it matters that he calls her Bea, but it does.
Tyler nods. “Sorry. Bea. So, it looks like the evidence is very strong. According to text records, the victim asked Bea to meet her in the locker room, and that’s where the murder occurred.”
“And what about Bea? What does she say?”
Tyler grimaces. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” he affirms. “She’s still unconscious.”
“What?”I jump up from my seat. “She’s unconscious? What happened? Is she hurt?”
He scans his phone. “The police believe she slipped on the blood and hit her head on one of the lockers. She has a concussion?—”
“A concussion?” My voice rises close to a shout. “She’s still unconscious from a head injury? Do they know—” My molars nearly crack in half. “Shit. Where is she?”
“The hospital. They can’t officially arrest her until she’s conscious and stable.”
Nausea surges.
Sweet Bea. Hurt. Unconscious. Are her parents with her? She mentioned they live in Pittsburgh. But would they even be allowed to see her? Or is she all alone? Will she wake up?—
“Is she going to be okay?” I ask roughly. “Bea. Do you know? Can you find out? Is she going to be okay?”
Eden comes towards me. She pats my arm and looks at me with a worried expression. “I didn’t know you were friends.”
“We’re not.”
As if Bea would want to be friends after the way I treated her.
“Okay,” Tyler says. “I got into the hospital records. The prognosis is good. No swelling. The doctors believe she’ll regain consciousness soon.”
Relief surges, but it’s quickly smothered by cold reality. “And once she does, they’ll take her to jail.”
Tyler nods solemnly. “Looks like it.”
I haven’t seen Bea in almost two years, not since our last appointment when she announced that I’d graduated from therapy. I still remember her bringing in a silly little graduation cap and a cupcake with a matching hat atop it. Despite my grouchy demeanor—because that was my default mood back then—she didn’t let it get to her.
“You did it,” she told me with that bright smile of hers. “Just keep up with the exercises I showed you, and you’re going to be just fine on your own. I’m proud of you, Indy. You did it.”
I didn’t thank her for it. Not for the cap or the cupcake, and not for helping me.
I should have. But I was feeling extra grouchy that day, so I just took the cap and cupcake without a word of thanks.
It was only later that I realized why I was in such a bad mood.
It was because I knew I wouldn’t have a reason to see Bea again.
Whenever I’d pull out that cap—because I kept it, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away—I’d think about Bea and wonder how she’s doing. I’d wonder if it would be weird to send her a card to say thanks after so much time. I’d imagine her happy, probably married with an adoring husband and possibly kids.
