Page 51 of The Delivery

Maddy’s tiny fingers find her pendant and then Rebecca’s, and Rebecca helps her piece them together to form a whole heart. That is how she is starting to feel for the first time in a long time. Whole.

When she rises again, she notices that Sheila has left.

Chapter 38

The parking lot is so crammed that navigating to freedom is like leaving a packed concert at the Hollywood Bowl. Creeping along in the minivan, Rebecca has Disney on Sirius. Maddy is singing along to “Let It Go” at the top of her lungs and making the stegosaurus lunch box, which has been moldering beneath the back seat since this afternoon, dance along. A light rain spits at the windshield, promising worse to come.

At last they are out onto the street, Patrick waving them along vigorously with the stop sign he seems to have on his person at all times, like a security blanket. Even threading through lesser-known residential roads, it takes a while for Rebecca to escape the clutches of congestion, every block providing more breathing room until they finally reach a pace suited to an automobile.

The streets suddenly are empty. Mist-shrouded treetops swoop by overhead. The windshield wipers give an unsettling squeak, smudging moisture back and forth ineffectively. She signals dutifully, begins a cautious turn onto the next street.

Even over the radio, she hears it.

The sound of car tires screeching, a prolonged skid.

And then the gut-dropping crunch of colliding metal.

As she sweeps through the turn, wipers beating manically, she makes out a crumpled red Jaguar SUV launched brutally across a tiny strip of front lawn and through the side of a house. Way ahead, taillights glower like demon eyes as the hit-and-run driver snakes across the next intersection and disappears into the gloom.

“Mommy, what is it?” Maddy is practically standing up off her car seat, the belt straining across her chest. “What happened?”

Rebecca pulls over and leaps out. “Stay here, honey. Just—stay here.”

The rain has intensified, soaking through her hair instantly, chilling her scalp, sluicing across her face. She is already dialing 911, speaking to the operator as she approaches, rattling off the street and intersection.

No one is home in the breached house, or at least the lights are off. The Jag is tangled up in the wall, the rear third smashed right through into the family room.

All the SUV’s windows have shattered, the deployed driver airbag beating against the dashboard with the wind. A form, Sheila’s form, is tipped forward toward the steering wheel, face buried in the saggy pillow of high-strength nylon.

Motionless.

“Someone’s hurt here,” Rebecca says into the phone. “Hurt bad.”

From the back seat, a voice cries out. No words, just a drawn-out cry of terror.

Sydney.

Ashen, shaken, but intact.

“I gotta go,” Rebecca tells the operator. “Get someone here now.”

Sydney spots Rebecca and begins to wail.

Rebecca moves to the rear window, reaching through the pebbled maw. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here. You’re safe. I got you now.”

Sydney stares at her, shell shocked. She looks okay—no bruising, no cuts. The side curtain airbag seems to have caught her; it, too, lulls in the wind that is blowing straight through the vehicle. The door is hammered shut so Rebecca leans through the shattered window, unlocks her seat belt, and guides her out.

Sydney clings to her neck and helps shove herself free. It takes some doing.

Rebecca runs her back to the minivan, clicking to slide the door open. Maddy waits, wide eyed and breathing hard.

“Sydney, wait here with Maddy. I’m gonna check on your mom.”

Sydney’s nod is a series of jerks.

Rebecca helps her in, closes the door, runs back to the Jag.

Sheila is still tilted forward, head embedded in the deflated air bag. Even over the acrid chemical smell from the airbag propellant, Rebecca can smell a tinge of white wine.