Page 105 of Lucky Shot

That’s not her at all.

I sort through the items in the personal folder, scanning the papers for any type of return address. There are handwritten notes she’s saved. A faded letter from years ago rescinding a full ride scholarship. A letter folded up in an envelope from Patrick. A bank statement that has absolutely fucking nothing in it—but it has a return address that’s not the club’s.

I type the address into my phone with one hand while shoving all the stuff I went through back into place with the other. I can’t get out the door fast enough.

“You’ve got it covered?” I yell to Martin as I jog out to the car park. His shout back is lost in the crazy thoughts going through my mind.

I force myself to drive slowly through the neighborhood streets, but I don’t have to go far. The address on the bank statement takes me less than four miles from the academy. The neighborhood is the same—run-down and low income—and I immediately groan.

What did I say about this neighborhood last night?

That it was dangerous and not safe for her? That she shouldn’t go out?

I insulted where she lived without ever thinking once that she might, in fact, live here.

But I saw that personal bank statement. I sorted through all those bills.

No wonder she had me drop her off somewhere else.

Guilt weighs heavy and unwanted as I pull up to the curb of a tired-looking complex of what one might call . . . tiny bungalows. There are two rows of these unattached studios that face each other. Each one has a small porch with steps leading up to a clapboard that’s in desperate need of repair and paint. The pavement between them is cracked but clean.

All of this I see but don’t properly absorb as I jog between them looking for unit number twenty-two.

I find it at the very back and know it’s hers simply because while it’s still as old and worn as all the others, there are a few bright pots of flowers brightening up its sagging stoop. I pound on the door with a heavy dose of concern behind it as the locks lining its right side rattle with the sound.

“Whitney? It’s Hardy.” Another few knocks with my fist. “Open up.”

I stand there and listen for any kind of movement behind the door. Maybe she won’t answer because she’s embarrassed for me to see this.

Then again, maybe she’s hurt.

The second thought only heightens my panic and has me moving around the short perimeter of her place. Without caring who sees me, I enter through the back gate to her postage-stamp yard, hands cupping my eyes to try and see anything that I can inside.

A small kitchen. A made bed on the far side of the room.

Did she not come home last night?

I move to the back door that has a windowpane in the top and that’s when I see her. She’s lying on the floor in the tiny space between the kitchen and what looks like a bathroom.

“Whitney,” I shout without thought. The brokenness in my voice is the only sound I hear.

My heart drops.

How long has she been here like this? Is she bleeding? Did someone hurt her?

I don’t think.

Just act.

Within seconds I have the lock splintering and the cheap door kicked in.

Her body jolts with the noise, and I get a very brief respite of relief. She’s alive.

But it’s short-lived because when I drop to my knees to her side, her face is gray in pallor, her skin is burning up to the touch, and whatever sounds she can manage are slurred and incoherent.

“Whitney. Hang in there. Please.”

But there’s no blood. No stab wounds. No gunshot wounds. No one came in here and hurt her.