Every time I glance at the window, my heart races. Part of me wants to know if Cristiano is still out there, but I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. If he’s still out there, and I have to assume someone would tell me if he’s not, the sight of him will make the guilt slice so deep. He’s injured, and he’s standing out there in the cold because of me.
But why is he just standing there? Why hasn’t he tried to get into the house? Is it that the Vicis have threatened him and told him not to come any closer, or is there another reason?
I wish I knew the answers.
By midday, my nerves are frayed from the strain of not looking out the window. I tell myself Cristiano won’t still be out there. Hecan’tstill be out there. He’ll have gone home, back to the mansion for the rest and recovery he so desperately needs.He won’t stand outside for a second night in a row. That would be insane.
Adora brings us more books. Sofia comes with lunch and checks on us. Everything is taken care of, thoughtful and kind. I feel guilty about being brought food when I have two legs and two arms of my own, but Sofia insists that I don’t have to do anything until I feel strong enough, and that she loves having people to take care of.
Leon seems happy here. He doesn’t ask about bodies or the blood or why we left so suddenly. He just accepts that we’re visiting Adora, the kind lady who came to see him in the hospital, and he’s content.
In the afternoon, Leon takes a nap and I stretch out on the bed beside him. Not sleeping. Just watching over him. After a while, I hear the sound of rain against the window, and relief loosens my chest.
That settles it.
Cristiano will have gone home. No one will keep standing there in the rain, especially with the injuries he has. Even he wouldn’t be that foolish. He’ll have realized that by now.
I slip out of bed carefully so as not to wake Leon and move to the window. I’ll take one peek, just to prove to myself that he’s gone so I can stop worrying.
I don’t open the curtains, but I hook a finger around the edge so I can peer outside.
My stomach drops.
He’s still there.
He’s soaking wet, his clothes plastered to his body and his hair dripping. There are heavy shadows under his eyes, and he sways slightly like he’s struggling to stay upright. He looks like he’s dying.
I can’t take it anymore. With a shaking hand, I reach for my phone and dial 911.
When the operator answers, my throat is so tight with emotion that I have to force the words out. “A man is badly injured. He’s standing on the street covered in blood. He needs an ambulance.”
I can hear the operator typing. I give the address, and then add, “Please, hurry. I don’t want him to die.”
When I hang up, I stay where I am, watching Cristiano without letting him see me. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. My hand is gripping my phone so tightly that my knuckles are white. I’m about to call the operator back when finally an ambulance turns onto the street.
Cristiano shifts on his feet so he can watch it approach.
Relief pours through me. He’ll be taken to that expensive hospital where he and Leon had surgery and have his injuries looked at. Competent doctors will make sure he hasn’t torn his stitches or damaged his recovering liver.
I pull the curtains open properly so I can watch the scene unfold.
Two male paramedics approach Cristiano and talk to him. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but their concern is apparent. Cristiano gives them brief answers, and I see him shake his head.
The men take a few steps away from Cristiano, and I feel my mouth drop open. They can’t be giving up. They can’t leave a bleeding man on the side of the road.
I watch the two men discuss Cristiano, seeming to argue back and forth. One of the men pushes his hand through his hair. They approach Cristiano once more and talk for longer this time, but Cristiano is immoveable as stone, despite his sickly appearance.
After that, the paramedics seem to give up and they get back in their vehicle.
“No, no, no,” I moan.
My palm is pressed against the glass as I watch the ambulance drive away. They were my last hope.
I look back at Cristiano and see that his gaze is locked on the house. On me.
I gasp and jerk back, yanking the curtains closed.
“Mama?”
