The doctor who assessed me earlier steps back into the small examination room, frowning at the three men crowding the space. Then she turns a warm grin to me, shooing Owen out of the way. “Time for those stitches, lady. I’ll make ‘em nice and pretty, don’t you worry. Won’t leave but a tiny scar.”
Panic begins to swarm my chest at the thought of getting stitches, my eyes finding Jack’s. “Can you?—”
He crosses the room to cradle my hand, but then catches himself, patting the top of my fingers before shoving his hands in his pockets. Disappointment pierces my chest as I nod, avoiding meeting his eyes.
Officer Owen frowns, scratching his head with a sigh. “Jack, you need to be?—”
“It can wait ten minutes.” Jack grates.
Owen lifts his hands placatingly, stepping back to resume his relaxed stance against the wall.
Logically, I know my arm is no longer dripping with blood, but the memory of it still makes me lightheaded, bringing with it the panic I felt when someone was shooting at us. I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing I still had Jack’s hand to hold onto when Dr. Roberts begins the process of cleaning the wound and sewing me up. Owen and Mary chatter quietly in the doorway, but it’s white noise as I pinch my eyes shut again and focus on the feel of the scratchy sheet between my fingers. It’s all I can do not to think about the slight pulling and sharp twinges in my arm.
“All done, Miss Willow,” Dr. Roberts announces.
“That’s it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just three little stitches. I also want to clean those scratches on your face, though.”
Jack frowns at said scratches and bruises, like he wants to hunt down and end the person who caused them.
Minutes later, he gives a brief squeeze to my uninjured arm before being escorted away by a new officer. Thankfully, Jack insisted I be questioned in this room, so I get to at least lie back in the hospital bed instead of sitting on an uncomfortable chair under a harsh light while arguing my innocence.
Dr. Roberts removes my IV before returning with a plateand a wrapped sandwich. “It’s from your boyfriend. Eat.” She smiles, and my eyes widen at what she’s assumed, but before I can protest or deny her words, she pats my hand and then points a stern finger at the two officers. “You have one hour, gentlemen. Then my patient needs to get herself into a real bed so she can rest.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Owen tips his head, his body language looking way more at ease as the evening goes on. I’m hoping that’s a sign in my favor.
Owen turns to me after the doctor leaves. “Answer truthfully, and we’ll make this as quick as possible, Miss Sinclair. We need to get some clarity on a few things.”
I barely avoid rolling my eyes, since there’s no indication of whether I’ll leave here a free woman or be slapped with a pair of handcuffs and on my way to trade cigarettes withThe Dementors.
“I’ll tell you everything I know. But can I see this supposed photo evidence you have?”
“We’ll get to that,” Owen replies in a clipped tone, pulling a small ringbound notebook from his breast pocket.
Mary scowls at his partner before assuming a relaxed stance. “Why don’t you walk us through your time here as you eat your sandwich. Start from the beginning. How long ago did you arrive?”
I nod, fiddling with the scratchy white blanket over my legs and struggling to believe it was a mere four days ago that I left the South Rim and my insecurities behind. I certainly wouldn’t have believed I’d end up here when I began.
In between bites of the sandwich, I walk Owen and Mary through every incident and interaction I’ve had since nervously climbing out of my car on the other side of the canyon, including bumping into Jack, ripping my original backpack, the weird door handle situation, and my firstexchange with Chad.
Then I get to the part where I acquired Marigold, which elicits traded glances between Owen and Mary. It’s only in this moment that I remember the few weird interactions with Sue and her husband. Why can I never remember his name? I tell Owen about them, too, grateful to unload every strange encounter.
Seven years and two bathroom breaks later, I’m finally at the end. It’s only been about thirty minutes in reality, but the day has retired and taken the very last dregs of my energy with it. Owen and Mary have mostly been silent, but I get the feeling a barrage of questions is about to ensue.
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Jack Jackson?” Owen asks, lips pursed as he stares at me.
I blink. “Why does that matter?”
“How many minutes were you alone with the victim before Jack found you with the body?” he continues to probe, tapping his pen on his notepad.
“Five minutes, at most.” I frown, not liking the direction of his questioning.
“So, long enough to sneak up on someone and attack them?”
“What?”
“Is your boyfriend covering for you, Miss Sinclair?”
