“Sir, you can’t be here?—”
“That’s—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, force the words out. “That’s Josie Bright. I’m her?—”
Technically, I’m her client and nothing more.
I’m the man who should have been with her. I’m the one who told her I was coming to get her. If I’d just driven to her office instead of her house—if I’d been faster—if I hadn’t wasted eight goddamn months?—
“—boyfriend.” The lie comes easy.
The police officer eyes my patch, but takes me at face value. “Sir, the paramedics are stabilizing her to get her to the hospital. Are you able to follow?”
I nod. I can’t speak. Can’t do anything but watch as they manage to maneuver her body from the car, onto a stretcher, and load her into the ambulance. As the doors slam shut, as the sirens wail to life, I walk over to my bike, climbing on as the vehicle tears off down the road.
I sit on it for a moment, staring at the wreckage. At the shattered glass glittering on the asphalt, at the skid marks, at the other vehicle—a black SUV, empty now, its front end crumpled but its driver nowhere to be seen.
I glance at the police officer. “Where’s the other driver? Did they survive?”
He hesitates, and it’s then I realize he’s securing the scene.
“Suspected hit and run,” he says slowly. “Though it could be that the other driver is dazed and doesn’t realize they’re?—”
Hit and run.
The cold heaviness in my chest turns to ice. Then to something hotter. Something that feels a lot like rage.
But that’s for later. Right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
I start my bike and follow the ambulance.
The hospital is a blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic.
I don’t remember parking. Don’t remember walking through the doors. One moment I’m on my bike, the next I’m at the emergency reception desk, my hands planted on the counter.
“Josephine Bright. She just came in by ambulance. Car accident.”
The woman behind the desk looks up at me—takes in the cut, the road dust, whatever expression is on my face—and has the good sense not to argue.
“Are you family?”
“Her partner.” The lie slides out smooth. I’m already committed to it.
Her fingers move across the keyboard. “She’s being assessed now. I’ll need you to fill out some information for us while you wait.” She slides a clipboard across the counter. “As much as you can.”
I take it, expecting to stare at a bunch of blank lines I can’t fill. We’re not actually together. I’m her client, nothing more. What could I possibly know?
I look down at the form.
Full name
Josephine Amy Bright. She mentioned her middle name once, months ago. I remember thinkingAmysuited her.
Date of birth
March 15th. Ginger had suggested we get her some flowers for her birthday.
Address
1847 Oakwood Lane. The little blue house with the overgrown rose bushes and the porch light she always leaves on. I know because I’ve driven past it more times than I care to admit, like some lovesick teenager who can’t stay away.
