Page 58 of The Wedding Party

“We’re done here,” Mr. Reynolds announces. “Let’s go, Sue.” He physically moves her and sets her in motion.

They leave without a formal conversation, and yet they’ve told me so much.

There’s something in Carrie’s background. Something that makes them fear the stigma connected to a plea of insanity. That doesn’t work in Danielle’s favor if that’s her defense for Carrie killing Oliver. Of course, it won’t matter if Carrie’s innocent.

All I can say to that is, we’ll see. We will definitely see.

I’m headed out to my car when my cellphone rings with a call from Lana. Aware she’s freaking out, and with good reason, I pause long enough to take her call. “How are you doing?” I answer.

“I can’t stop seeing him on that bed. And her all covered in blood. Did she do it? She did it, right? How can this be happening?”

Earlier, she insisted that Carrie didn’t do it. I have no idea why her flip-flop bothers me, but it does. I wonder if all of Carrie’s friends will start doubting her now. “I thought you were sure she didn’t do it?”

“Are you?” she asks.

“I don’t know her. You do.”

“I know, but I just kept thinking about her covered in blood. It’s hard to get past that part of all of this.”

Because we shouldn’t try to get past it, I think. It’s a clue. It’s telling us something. It’s telling me something. I’m just not sure it’s telling me anything obvious.

Chapter Forty-Nine

CARRIE

Still cuffed to my IV pole, I sit in the hospital chair by the window, trying to get a grip on exactly what is happening to me. I’ve lost the man I love and it’s destroying me, but I can’t just grieve. No. No. I need an attorney. I need to protect myself.

My mind replays the meeting with Danielle Littleton.

I’d just started escaping the haze of the drugs, not as much as I’d have liked, but I was improving, when she entered my room and announced her name and declared herself my attorney. I said, “Who hired you? I don’t . . . I didn’t—”

“You did. Your parents and I talked on your behalf. As soon as your parents arrive with your checkbook in hand—”

“They don’t have my checkbook.”

“They’re going to your house, and as I was saying, when they arrive, you’re going to write me a check that I’m going to cash before the Phoenix family freezes your bank account and accuses you of murder.”

“They’re not going to do that,” I argued. “They were just here. They told me—”

“It doesn’t matter what they told you,” she snapped. “They’re manipulating you. You killed their son.”

“I did not kill Oliver!” I shouted at her.

She grabbed the railing at the end of my bed and said, “They need to charge someone. Help me make sure it’s not you.”

That’s when I sobered in all kinds of ways and reality set in. No matter how many times I say I didn’t kill Oliver, no matter how unfathomable such a thing is to me, it’s not unfathomable to anyone else. Everyone else, probably even my own parents, think I killed Oliver.

I have to assume Danielle does, too. Maybe even the Phoenixes.

“Oliver’s parents want—”

“A lot of things,” she said. “We’ll see how that aligns with your best interests and go from there.”

Returning to the present, I have to thank Danielle for reminding me why I must retrieve my memories. Those memories could hold the truth to what happened to Oliver. They could very well allow us to catch Oliver’s killer.

This as my focus is all I have now, but it’s a mighty and necessary goal. That means no more drugs. That means finding that calm, cool self I find in the ER who defies the hell around me. I can do this. I have to do this. For Oliver. Everything is for Oliver.

With that goal in mind, I’m frustrated as Ava, my fiftysomething nurse, kneels beside me to check my vitals. I’m frustrated with the throb in my head that tells me I’m far from recovered.