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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CARMEN
“We’re going to take some samples from your body, but we will need your clothes too,” a nurse says as we get back into a room. “Here is a gown you can put on and a bag for your clothes.”
I nod and wait for her to leave the room so I can undress.
As soon as the door clicks closed behind her, I drop the bag and gown she gave me on the bed and rush to the phone plugged in next to it. Dialing Lydia’s number, I bring it to my ear. The plastic is cold against my face, and the smell of antiseptic overwhelms my nostrils, making my stomach turn.
I shake it away, praying she answers as I watch the door to make sure no one catches me. At this point, they haven’t said I’m a suspect, but I know how this shit works.
“Hello?”
Lydia’s voice has me releasing the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “911. I’m okay, but I’m at the hospital.”
“What? What happened?” Concern has her voice screeching.
“Just get here. I need your help.” I hang up before she can ask any more questions. Right now, I can’t risk talking to anyone unless it’s in person.
I lay the phone back down on the bedside table and start to strip. Starting with my shoes, I slip them from my feet and put them in the clear plastic bag. As I lift my shirt, it pulls my skin. Dried blood has it sticking to me, and it does nothing but make me feel even more nauseous. Once it’s finally off, I slip out of my shorts and throw them in the bag too, then slip the gown on backward so I can tie it in the front.
Once it’s secured, there is a soft knock on the door before it opens. “Miss Shultz,” the same nurse from earlier starts as she walks in pushing a cart with a man following. “This is Dr. Sullivan. He’ll be getting the samples from your body and examining you to make sure you’re okay.”
I nod and perch myself on the edge of the bed. “Will I be able to shower afterwards?”
“Yes.”
Thank fuck.
“We’re going to start with your hair, okay?” The old man walks toward me as he puts on his gloves.
I nod again. It’s not like I can say no; it would make me look guilty, and that’s definitely not what I want at this point.
He picks up a black plastic comb from the cart, along with a manilla envelope. He slowly brushes through my brown locks, holding the envelope under each section to catch anything that may come out. It snags in the tangles a few times, but I grind my teeth and focus on the nurse watching intently beside us instead of the pain.
Once he finishes, he seals the envelope and hands it to the nurse, who places it in an evidence bag. “Next, I need to take some swabs from your body. Every place blood may have touched you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Getting naked for an old doctor wasn’t on my agenda today, but then again, none of this was. I stand from the bed and untie the gown, revealing myself to him and the nurse. The air is cold as it hits my skin, but the cotton swaps covered in whatever liquid he’s drenched them in are even colder.
He swabs around my chest, then moves to my stomach with a new Q-Tip, then down to my legs. “I need to do your feet now. Take a seat and lift one at a time.”
I do as he says, not surprised to see the soles of my feet are stained with blood. The rain washed it from my skin, then slid down my body and into my shoes. After he’s finished, I turn around and let him repeat the same process for the back of me. When he’s done, I sit back on the edge of the bed.
The nurse puts each swab into its own vile, then places them in a different manilla envelope. “The last thing we need to do is a GSR test on your hands.”
He pulls out something that almost looks like a stamp as I tie my gown back around me. Just a small round plastic piece that’s smaller than a bottle cap, but a little taller. I extend both my hands out, and he starts pressing it along my skin, going all the way to my wrist.
“That’s it. I’ll let you get cleaned up and come back later for your exam.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I stay silent as the nurse pulls a couple of towels from the cart and hands them to me. Silence seems to be my best friend at this point until I figure out a solid plan to make my story believable.
“You can shower now. Just leave the towels in the basket there, and I’ll collect them later,” she says with a flick of her wrist toward the basket she mentioned.
Another nod is all I give them as they exit the room, pulling the cart with them.
As the door closes, I stand from the bed again and head straight to the bathroom. The floor is sloped in the center with a drain. The toilet is to the left and the shower to the right with no curtain. Normally, I’d stick it out, wait till I was home and could shower with my own things where I’m comfortable, but there is no telling how long they will try and keep me here. I set the towel on the small counter, where there is a fresh gown, then slip the one from my body. Walking across the cold tile, I position myself under the showerhead and turn it on. The burst of cold water only lasts a few seconds before it’s warmer and inviting.
I rinse my hair, then run my hands along every inch of my body, hoping it gets everything off me. The small bottle of shampoo in the nook under the knobs won’t do much, but it’ll be enough for now. I use a quarter-sized drop in my hair, then the rest to scrub my skin. Once the water starts to run clear, I turn it off and wring out my hair.
