Page 66 of One of Us Is Guilty

I leapt out of the car, Harry behind me.

There, outside the hotel, sitting down on the sidewalk with her back against the building.

Amy.

Surrounded by the same group of girls who had been squealing with delight not hours before.

Her head was on her chest, and the girl who I guessed was Keisha knelt beside her, with her arm round Amy’s shoulders.

‘She’s been sick,’ said Keisha, ‘but she still doesn’t look good.’

I knelt down, cupped her face in my hands and lifted Amy’s chin. Her eyes were half closed and her skin was hot to touch. The other girls outside were shivering in the cold. Vomit had flecked Amy’s dress.

‘What the hell happened?’ I asked.

A cacophony of high-pitched, panicked voices rang out all at once.

‘One at a time, ladies. It’s okay,’ said Harry.

‘We don’t know,’ said Keisha. ‘She was fine then she stumbled on the dance floor, and we sat down together and had some water.Then she got really drowsy, said she was feeling sick. I said I would call you and then we went outside. She vomited and now she’s barely conscious. But I swear she didn’t have any alcohol. On my life, I swear to God, she—’

‘Okay, okay,’ I said, and bent down to my daughter.

‘Amy, can you hear me?’ I asked.

She groaned, leaned over and a little more sick came up.

That’s when I saw the flash.

I looked up.

A guy in a black coat was taking pictures with an expensive-looking camera.

‘Get the hell out of here,’ said Harry.

The guy let the camera drop from his face, smiled and then turned and ran.

‘What the hell was he doing taking pictures? Does he think we’ll sue or something?’ said Keisha.

‘What are you talking about? Do you know that guy?’ asked Harry.

‘He was working behind the bar earlier,’ said Keisha.

Harry and I exchanged a look.

‘Thank you, Keisha, we can take it from here. Harry, get the door. We’re going to the hospital.’

‘Dad, these clothes stink,’ said Amy.

She was lying in a hospital bed. I’d brought my gym bag from the trunk of the car. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a Black Key’s T-shirt. She had a butterfly needle on the back of her hand that was attacked to a saline drip that hung above the bed.

I patted her head with a damp towel, said, ‘They may stink, but they don’t have vomit on them.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I can get the car cleaned. I can’t get a new daughter.’

The young doctor who had seen Amy earlier threw open thegreen curtain that surrounded the bed. He didn’t look that much older than Amy.