“How was your wife shot?”
“I was cleaning out an old rifle, and it went off.”
Someone moves me to a bed with warm, clean sheets that smell like Clorox. I say softly, “Call Beckett, he’s a doctor, he cured cancer…” My words are slurred, and then I fade out.
When I wake up, I’m in a dark hospital room. There is an oxygen mask over my face, I’m hooked up to tubes, and a soft beeping keeps me company. I feel a little better, but very weak. A nurse walks in and looks surprised. She speaks into a microphone on her shoulder.
“Jane Doe is conscious.”
Jane Doe?
“Hi there. I’m Amelia. I’m your nurse. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Good. Can I have your name, darlin'?” She sounds so sweet and kind.
“Selena.” My voice is dry, and it hurts my throat to speak.
“Selena, very pretty name. Can I have your last name?”
For some reason, this is harder. What is my last name? I don’t say anything at first.
“Struggling with that one? Okay, can you tell me about the diamonds you had on?”
“Diamonds?” I had diamonds. Why was I wearing diamonds? The strain of thinking, of trying to remember has the room spinning; it’s too much. My eyes lose focus.
“The police want to ask you some questions.” The nurse's voice is still kind, still warm. She checks my vitals as I drift in and out.
“Calloway,” I say softly, before I can’t think. I’m hot again, and I don’t feel well.
The nurse goes for her radio again. "The patient in 491A has a high-grade fever, her pulse is weak, and her blood pressure is crashing," she says with urgency. “Get the attending in here STAT and call surgery, we have to postpone the operation…”
…is all I hear before I slip away again.
When I wake up, there are two armed police officers at my door, and they are talking to one another as if I’m not in the room.
“Who the hell shoots a half-naked woman wearing a million dollars' worth of jewelry?” one of the officers says in a whisper.
“Likely, he shot her to get the diamonds, but who did she steal them from? That’s what I want to know,” says the other.
“Diamonds like that? We’re talking major felony, jewelry store heist-level. They are looking at doing some serious time.”
“Apparently, she’s been in that condition for days, and he didn’t call for help.”
Another officer approaches, speaking quietly. “We ran the serials on the jewelry. They’re real. Traced to a high-end Manhattan jeweler, and were rented three days ago by a… Griffin Calloway.”
“The Griffin Calloway? He’s the lawyer who negotiated the ‘Sale of Manhattan’ to the real estate magnet Marcel Trudeau?” the first police officer says. “That guy owns the condo we were renting. We had to move here so we could buy something affordable after he hiked the rents.”
“I didn’t know you lived in New York City?” The second police officer says. “Joliet’s gotta be a helluva adjustment.”
“The wife loves Indiana, so we’re good. She has family here.” The cop shrugs his shoulders.
The nice nurse returns. “Did you say Calloway?”
My heart races hearing Griffin’s last name… my last name.
“Yes, Griffin Calloway rented the diamonds our Jane Doe was wearing when she came in.”
