As my fingers work shampoo into her hair, the tips searching for any contusions and finding none, Em starts coughing. I hold her upright as the spasms work through her, wincing at the raw sounds that reflect the damage done to her throat.
When the painful convulsions finally stop, she sags within my arms then gradually finds her footing again.
“Not how I imagined our first shower together,” she says through a voice so cracked it takes me running the words through my head a few times before I understand what she’s saying.
Humour. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?
“No kidding. Drama queen.”
I pull her against my chest while rinsing out her short hair, then turn off the shower, cradling her body close to mine as I reach for a towel. She’s not steady enough on her feet for me to trust them to hold her weight, so I ease her into a sitting position against the wall before towelling her dry, only doing the same to myself as an afterthought.
I need to get her out of here.
My hideout. The one I barely ever visit. There’s no one there to disturb us. No concerned parent lurking to ask tough questions.
Stefan knows of its existence, told me to use it at my convenience, but no one else. When we don’t turn up to school tomorrow, Zach won’t come knocking at my door, bringing his newly formed brand of concern to weigh in on my life.
There, I can keep her safe. Let her heal. Make sure she’s well. Make sure she has no reason to try this ever again.
The place isn’t large. A single-car garage. A small bedroom with ensuite, smaller kitchen, and a lounge that doubles as a second bedroom if I pull the sofa out into a foldaway bed.
There’s no laundry but I can wash clothes in the sink.
What are you doing? She needs to go to hospital.
She needs someone to care for her, more like. A job that everyone else in her life has abdicated, including herself.
A pulse of anger runs through me and I’m not sure if it’s at her or me. The tremor that hit my chest when I first understood what I was seeing hasn’t left. Hasn’t lessened.
No one’s going anywhere near her until I understand what just happened. Until I can assure myself it won’t happen again.
Not to hospital, not home, not to school.
Taking her into my arms, I carry her into my bedroom, laying her on the bed as I quickly pull clothing out, tossing some to her, placing some on the covers for me, and putting the rest into a bag.
When I’ve dressed, I help her. She swims inside the sweatpants and tee, and I leave her alone for half a minute to rummage in my mother’s room for a more suitable top. There’s a cardigan that Mum wore every day for a year then never touched again. It’s full length, cable knit, made from real wool. Em disappears within its warmth like a swaddled baby.
Colour comes back into her cheeks. Not enough to match the raw marks where she clawed at her throat but bringing fresh life to her face.
I ransack the cupboards, knowing my hideout has a lot of snacks and very little proper food. A situation not greatly different from the pantry here. Halfway through, I remember we have a first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet, and I detour there, tossing it into a fresh bag and grabbing another few items of clothing from Mum’s drawers for Em to wear.
Wads of cash are stashed in a safe in my wardrobe. There’s also a gun. Not the same one we used to kill Robbie, on Stefan’s directions that’s long gone, melted into its component metals. This belonged to the private investigator who confronted us about his death, while Robbie’s Mum looked on.
I kept it because it seemed like it might come in handy. Staring at it now, I’m in two minds.
Great for defence, sure. Also, a quick and easy option for a suicidal girl to make a rash decision.
My paranoia won’t let me leave it behind. Em’s impoverished relatives mightn’t hunt us down but there’s a connection to a wealthy man in there somewhere. A man with resources enough to find us.
I shove its magazine into my jacket pocket and toss the unloaded weapon into my bag, along with a box of ammunition. I’ll just have to be good at hiding. Or… I cross to my bedside table and paw through a multitude of toys, emerging with a pair of restraints. The pink fluffy cuffs couldn’t look more out of place for our current circumstances if they tried.
They go in the bag.
I close my eyes, ticking off what I’ve amassed against a list of what I might need.
The money will have to cover any gaps. I don’t want to stay here, where anyone might find us, a second longer than I have to.
Em sits where I left her, staring blankly in front of her with a slight frown marring her brow. I cup her face in my left hand, holding the bag with my right, scanning her intently for signs of any changes. “You breathing okay?”
