Page 6

RORY

I never wanted to be in the hospital again.

Unrealistic? Maybe.

Still. I hoped, at least.

But in all the times I thought it might be unavoidable—like the time I tripped over Elmore and twisted my ankle, the food poisoning I got three years ago, or the rusty nail I stepped on while trying to clean out the barn—I never imagined ending up here without any memory of how or why.

That’s what makes this whole thing doubly frightening. It would be scary enough with my injuries alone—minor concussion, bruised ribs and trachea, and more cuts and scrapes than I can count—but not even knowing how I got them?

It’s terrifying; even though I’m doing my best to hide it.

While the emergency room doctor examined me, it was a little easier to keep up a good front.

I could focus on the clinical part of it, the tests and diagnostic questions, while shoving my turbulent emotions to the side.

Listening to the doctor rattle off vital signs and X-ray results was far easier than letting my mind wander to those missing hours between bedtime and this morning.

But now that I’m alone in the hospital room again, all those scary thoughts come rushing back in.

How did I end up in the woods?

Why would I have gone out there?

Who hit me hard enough to give me a concussion? Whose fingerprints made a ring of bruises around my neck?

And the scariest question of all— why can’t I remember?

The doctor said it’s normal to experience a loss of memory after a head injury.

Especially if the events leading up to it were traumatic, which I think it’s safe to assume they were.

He didn’t come right and say, well, it looks like someone tried to kill you , but what other explanation can there be?

I was punched in the head. Kicked in the ribs, if the foot-sized bruise on my side is any indication, and it couldn’t be more obvious that someone tried to strangle me.

And that leads to even more questions without answers. Who would do that to me? And if they wanted me dead, how did I escape?

God.

Someone wants me dead .

A shiver runs through me, sending a rush of goosebumps across my body. The heart monitor hooked to my finger makes a series of alarmed beeps as panic slams into me again.

I’m in the hospital, surrounded by anxiety-inducing sounds like the heart monitor and the buzz of doctors and nurses in the hallway and the heart-stopping crackle over the intercom of, “Code blue in One-fifty. Code Blue. Need assistance STAT.”

It’s too close to the memories I’d rather forget.

As the familiar signs of PTSD creep up on me—shortness of breath, trembling hands, cold sweat prickling the back of my neck—I try to use some of the strategies my old counselor taught me.

Taking a deep breath in, I hold it for four seconds before letting it out, then repeat another four times after that.

I look around the room, trying to find five things to think about, but everything I find only makes my panic get worse.

The softly beeping monitor reminds me of those final moments before my life changed irrevocably.

The scratchy blanket over my legs makes me feel claustrophobic instead of warming me, like it should.

The small room is austere, not a single decoration or get well card in sight, evoking a suffocating loneliness that makes it hard to breathe.

I take a sip of water from the glass on the table next to the bed, but instead of being refreshing, the burn of liquid running down my sore and swollen throat is just another reminder of what happened only hours ago.

My nails dig into the mattress as I fight to control my rising anxiety.

And I’m struck with an irrational desire to hide.

To leave the hospital and go back to where I feel safe.

Home. With my dogs. Where strangers don’t let their gazes linger on the scars on my body and face, their mouths twisting in sympathy.

I want to be on my couch, snuggled up in front of the fire with Elmore and Toby on either side of my legs.

I wish this were just a regular day instead of the total disaster it’s become.

Gage would have been over already to fix the loose plank on my porch.

He might have even stayed for a little while after to eat some of the blueberry crumble muffins I made for his visit.

I’d be fully into my daily routine by now, spending one-on-one time with each of the rescue dogs, training them so they’ll be ready to join a new family soon.

But instead, I’m here.

Scared. Hurting. And feeling utterly alone.

A tiny voice whispers in my head, wistfully pleading, I want Gage. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?

But I know why. Because he already did his duty.

Not just finding me in the woods, but bringing me back to the house, building a fire and finding nearly every blanket I own to help me get warm.

Staying with me until the police and paramedics arrived.

And he even insisted on riding in the ambulance with me, telling the protesting ambulance driver in a tone that brooked no argument, “Rory could be in serious danger. I’m not leaving her alone. ”

That was nearly two hours ago, though. Once we arrived at the hospital, I was whisked away while Gage hung back. The last thing he called after me before we were separated was, “I’ll make sure the dogs are taken care of, Ror. Don’t worry about them.”

It’s not that I don’t trust Gage. But I don’t know if whoever came after me last night did something to the dogs. Could they have somehow put poison in the food or water? Broken into the barn and hurt them? I know Elmore and Toby are okay, but what if?—

“Aurora Townsend?”

I jolt at the unfamiliar male voice; my heart monitor giving another unhappy flurry of beeps. My lungs seize. All my muscles tense, poised and ready to flee.

My terrified brain screeches silently, Run! The man who came to hurt you is back. Get out of here now!

Ridiculous, I know. I’m in the hospital, surrounded by dozens of people. Even if this person plans to come after me again, they won’t do it here.

But a glance at the doorway tells me it’s not my unidentified attacker. Not because I recognize the uniformed cop standing there, but the woman beside him, I do.

Sage Nelson. The only female police officer in Bliss. And the very lovely woman who came to the rescue to introduce herself more than a year ago, handing me her number and letting me know to call if I ever needed anything.

Still, my racing heart takes a bit longer to catch up to reality. As I work to steady my breathing, the dark-haired man says apologetically, “Sorry, Miss Townsend. I didn’t mean to scare you. With all the noise in the hospital?—”

“No, it’s fine,” I reassure him. Pasting a tight smile on my face, I continue, “I was just… startled, is all.”

“Being in the hospital always makes me a little jumpy,” Officer Nelson adds kindly. “So many things going on, and when you’re not feeling your best…”

Forcibly unclenching my fingers from the blanket, I smooth it nervously across my lap. “It’s alright. I should have been expecting you, anyway.”

Of course the police would want to question me.

They didn’t back at my house, mainly because Gage put his foot down and said I wasn’t in any condition for it.

“She probably has a concussion,” he informed the responding officers—not Sage and the man with her—with a deep frown.

“Possible early stages of hypothermia. Not to mention she’s bruised all over and there are injuries we might not be able to see. ”

So I got a brief reprieve. But now that I’ve been checked over and declared stable, there’s no reason I can’t talk to the police.

Well, aside from wishing I could bury my head in the proverbial sand and pretend none of this is happening, but I don’t think that’s a realistic possibility.

“Well,” the man says as he steps into the room, “I know you’ve already met Officer Nelson. I’m Officer Quillian. And the two of us will be working your case. If you’re feeling up to it, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

“I know your throat must be sore,” Sage—Officer Nelson—says. “So we’ll try to make this as quick as possible.”

“Okay.” And now that she mentioned it, it does hurt to talk. But in the scheme of things, a sore throat is much preferable to being, you know, dead . “What do you want to know?”

Officers Quillian and Nelson walk closer to my bed, their gazes quickly skimming my body. Officer Quillian’s jaw tightens as he notices the bruises on my neck. Officer Nelson scowls when her eyes land on the giant lump on my forehead.

“I understand your memory is a little foggy,” Officer Nelson says. “And that’s okay. If you could just take us through what you do remember, starting with last night.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small notebook. A second later, a bright purple pen with metallic streamers appears.

Instead of answering, I can’t help staring at the incongruity of it. This stern-faced cop with a crisp uniform and no-nonsense demeanor holding a pen that looks more like something a little girl would use.

“It’s from my niece,” he says, reading the question on my face. “She loves giving me… unique pens, I’d call them. But it makes her happy to know I’m using them, so I do.”

“That’s nice,” I reply, glad to have something more pleasant to talk about. “How old is she?”

Officer Quillian smiles. “She’s nine. You’ve probably met her. Lissa Dawson. Her mom is my sister—Gloria Dawson. They adopted a dog from you last year. A little poodle?—”

“Oh, Frankie.” For a second, all the stress slips away. “I remember. Lissa was so thrilled. How is everything going?”

“Really good. Lissa loves Frankie. And unsurprisingly, she has all sorts of glittery things for him to wear.”

Now my smile feels more real. “That’s awesome. I’m so glad things are working out.”

“They are,” Officer Quillian agrees. Then he pauses, his expression sobering. “So. Last night?”

Right. All the stuff I can’t remember.