Page 52 of The Delivery

Steeling herself, she reaches a hand toward Sheila’s neck, trying for a pulse.

Before she can make contact, there comes a sharp gurgle. Sheila’s body twitches and leans stiffly back in the driver’s seat.

Her face seems to be gone. What remains is a red mask.

A forehead laceration bleeds freely, sheeting blood across her face. The nose is badly broken, smeared to the side and torn wide open down the front to expose the nasal cavity. One eye is swollen shut. The other stabs out of the morass, focusing on Rebecca. Swollen lips part. A hiss issues forth. A bubble of crimson-laced saliva forms at the mouth and then pops.

Rebecca takes her hand before realizing that the fingers are jangled inorganically, broken at the knuckles. “It’s okay,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Sydney,” the face hisses.

“I have her. She’s okay. She’s not hurt. I have her. I have her.”

Mercifully, Rebecca hears sirens.

Sheila’s neck buckles, head lolling. Rebecca takes it, eases it back onto the headrest, her palms sticky against the abraded flesh. “Just hang on. Help is coming.”

“Take . . . Sydney . . . home . . .”

“I will. As soon as the paramedics check her, I’ll get her safely home. I promise.”

The siren scream peaks, the broken glass all around them dancing with reflected reds and blues.

“Don’t worry. Just breathe. You’re gonna be okay.”

Footsteps approaching. “Ma’am, stand clear. Stand clear, please, and let us do our job.”

Rebecca obeys. “There’s a child, too, who was in the car when it was hit.”

“Where is she?”

“In my van. In my minivan.”

Two of the paramedics are working on Sheila. A third hustles to the minivan, and Rebecca follows to open the door.

Hugging herself across the stomach, she stands in the rain. She pictures Mr. Man in the kitchen the other morning, quietly listening when she told her husband and daughter how much she’d like to sue Sheila right in the face.

Chapter 39

It is nearly eleven o’clock by the time Rebecca drives Sydney home. Maddy stays at Sydney’s side, holding hands as the three of them make their way up the walkway, carved through lush landscaping. Unseen lighting bleaches the air with a trio of flashes, waves of thunder rumbling at them on a few seconds’ delay. They are soaked through and through, teeth chattering.

Rebecca has updated Mark at intervals, and he is already heading home to wait for them. The thought is an immense comfort.

They continue toward the expansive house. Because Rebecca called ahead, the butler and nanny are waiting in the foyer, the architectural front door already open beneath the modern portico.

As they near, Sydney reaches for Rebecca’s hand. She stands there between Maddy and Rebecca.

“Where is . . .” Rebecca hesitates, trying to remember the dad’s name. “Her father?”

“In New York on business,” the butler says.

The nanny gestures for Sydney to come in. Sydney does not let go of Rebecca’s and Maddy’s hands.

“Come,” the nanny says brusquely, with a heavy accent. “Bath time.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Rebecca said.

The nanny makes a clucking noise, as if shooing a dog, as she steps forward and tugs Sydney free.