Page 2

ONE

NATALIE

NOW

“Brain dead?” I whisper and feel the omelet I had for breakfast forcing its way back out.

My friend Cara, lying motionless on a hospital bed, makes my stomach turn. A flashback of Lindsey’s funeral hits me, stirring fresh pain.

Three of us moved to New York City nine years ago. Small-town girls. Big dreams.

Then there was just Cara and me.

Now, another one of my best friends is fighting for her life.

“That’s not what I said, Miss Olsen,” says the detective who stands just a bit behind me, explaining what happened so routinely like she does it every day for a living. “She’s in a coma with little brain activity.”

The detective is around my age. But her voice is low and abrasive, like she’s recovering from a bad sore throat, which doesn’t go with her pretty feminine looks.

“The doctor will be here shortly to explain everything,” she continues. “They said your friend is likely to have some degree of amnesia if she recovers. It’s the effect of the drug found in her system.”

“What drug does that ?” I choke out as I step closer to the hospital bed, afraid that, if I touch Cara, she will feel cold like a corpse.

“Think date-rape drug but five times stronger, with potentially lethal effects.”

“Why?” I ask in a whisper.

“To find out why, we need to find the person who did that to her. We need your help.”

“I already told you. I have no idea who he is.”

“Assuming it’s a he .”

“Who else would it be? Like I said, we were at the club. We were drinking. She was talking to the red-haired guy I told you about. She never said his name, only that he was in the VIP section.”

“Did you get a good look at him? Who was he with?”

“Don’t know. She just said he was a VIP.”

As well as, “He is my jackpot. Soon, we’ll get out of that hellhole in Jersey. I promise, babe!”

But the detective doesn’t need to know that.

I’m still hungover from yesterday, and Cara… Well, Cara went home with a stranger and was found unconscious at a bus stop early this morning.

“So, let me get it straight,” the detective says calmly. “She’s been drinking. She’s just met this guy. She doesn’t know him. You don’t even know his name. And you let your friend go home with him without a second thought?”

“Listen…” I close my eyes, trying to get my thoughts in order.

How do I explain without getting judged that Cara liked to party, liked sex, liked money? She enjoyed hooking up with men.

Of course, the detective won’t understand it. Her next words prove it.

“That’s how young ladies end up unconscious at public bus stops at dawn. I’ll tell you one thing, that was probably a lucky scenario for her, considering…”

I look at her over my shoulder, running into her indifferent gaze. “Considering what?”

“Considering she wasn’t raped, as per the rape kit. No sexual intercourse in the last twenty-four hours. So why was she spiked with such a heavy drug? I have a feeling there’s more to this story, Miss Olsen.”

“Can’t you check the club’s cameras?”

“There’s no crime, per se. There’s no evidence pointing to the man from the club.”

“So you are not investigating this?”

“We are interested for a different reason.”

“What other reason can there be?” I snap, though there’s no point arguing. I get it. No crime, per se.

“There’s another young woman in this very hospital in a similar condition,” the detective says. “Which was the result of the exact same drug. Except she has no brain activity.”

My insides turn. “You think there’s a connection?”

“Recently, there were two similar cases of women poisoned by the same drug. No leads. No evidence of what happened. The substance we are talking about is not a prescription drug. It’s illegal in the States.”

“Those other women didn’t say what happened?”

“They never recovered.”

Bile rises to my throat, but I push down the dread. It takes me a moment before I speak again. “What’s the verdict on Cara’s current state?”

“The doctors can’t say yet. It hasn’t been long enough. She needs to come to, talk, and go through a number of tests. It’s fifty-fifty.”

“What does that mean?”

“She recovers without a clear memory of the last several days. Or…”

It’s the or that makes my stomach turn again.

Cara looks peaceful on the hospital bed, her heart monitor quietly beeping. Just like Lindsey before she passed. This is a screwed-up déjà vu that grips my emotions in an iron-like hold.

But hope is a trickster, often making us believe that we can beat the odds. Cara will. She will. You’ve got it, babe.

“Or she will have permanent brain damage,” the detective says.

I bite down on my lower lip to stop the tears welling up in my eyes.

“We need to find the person responsible,” I say, despite no crime, per se.

“Are you telling me everything , Miss Olsen?” the detective insists, making me feel as if I’m the criminal here.

She waits for the answer, but I’m done with this conversation.

“Well, think it over. Call me if you think of anything.”

I ignore her and grit my teeth as she passes me her card and leaves without saying goodbye.

Detective Lesley Dupin, Jersey City Police Department, her card reads.

Whatever.

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Only now do I realize that my best friend might never recover. We might never have night-long chats again. No clubs. No dress-ups. No dreams of traveling the world. Or going to Greece. Or doing a road trip and camping out in the Appalachians.

First Lindsey. Now Cara. What have we done to deserve this?

I wipe away tears and pray for Cara to wake up. I have no clue who the man is that did this to her. He’s a needle in the middle of a haystack that’s New York City. So, how do I find a red-haired stranger who possibly injected my friend with a dangerous drug and dumped her at a bus stop?