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Ignore the doctor thing. Shrewd, Mario.Except his badge said Capaccio, but whatever. “She is,” I said easily, slipping my hands in the soft pockets of my joggers. “She isn’t feeling well, and as her friend, I’m just giving her a place to rest while she recovers.”
“Can we talk to Miss Brook, please?” Capaccio asked. “In addition to a welfare check request, we were informed that she might be in possession of a stolen vehicle.”
That piqued my interest. “Stolen vehicle?”
The other cop, whose badge said “Hauke,” glanced at the paper again. “A red SUV registered to Jason Forsmythe?”
Forsmythe?I thought, wrinkling my nose.Is he her ex-husband or a British villain with a twirled mustache? What a ridiculous last name. And what the actualfuckLaurel? Your ex-husband owns your car? Are you for real?I gave the taller cop a congenial eye squint. “So, her ex-husband who lives… where?”
“Not relevant,” Mario grumbled.
“Hm,” I hummed, looking between the cops. “Well, I don’t see a red SUV here, do you?”
Hauke looked around a little stupidly. Capaccio squinted one eye. “So, Miss Brook is not possession of this vehicle?”
I looked around for their benefit. “Nope. I brought her here myself after I ran into her at the grocery store. Laurel is really very sick. She has a contagious case of strep throat, she’s resting at the moment, and she’s hooked up to an IV. And I happen to know for a fact that contact with her ex-husband in any form is emotionally distressing for her. So, unless you have a warrant…?”
Mario glared. The taller cop looked like he would very much like to get back in his car and back out of my driveway. Mario grunted, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to present proof of her safety?”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and showed them the address, phone number, and explanation I had texted to Laurel’s mother before we had left the clinic. “This is Laurel’s mother. You’re welcome to call her and verify that we have both spoken to her and she knows about Laurel’s whereabouts and safety.”
Although, I reasoned, if they knew that Laurel was here, then they had likely already visited with Mrs. Brook and gotten my address. They were ticking off boxes and crossing their t’s so to speak.
Mario jotted down Laurel’s mother’s phone number—which, again, I suspected he already had—while Hauke peered over his shoulder at the message. The tall cop gave me an apologetic look. “We’re sorry to disturb you, sir. Doctor. Mr. Forsmythe just wanted to make sure she was in a safe location.”
I didn’t bother to respond to that stupidity. He did not give a flying fuck about Laurel’s safety, and everyone standing in my doorway knew that. This was some kind of sick power move from wherever he lived, and I wasn’t going to let it slide.
A crash sounded from my bedroom, not loudly, but enough to send my heart racing. “Are we good here?” I asked with a worried glance toward the bedroom door.
“We’ll be in touch,” Capaccio rumbled.
I closed the door firmly and then jogged through the darkened house across slick floors back to my room. Laurel had probably just knocked something over, but on the off chance—
I slid to a halt in the doorway.
Laurel stood in front of the window wall, her cobalt eyes round and terrified, staring blankly at the bright cruiser lights. At her feet, a smashed bowl of oatmeal had splashed up her sweatpants and all over the window. A glob of it plopped softly to the ground.
Her arm, limp at her side, dripped a thin, steady stream of blood onto my waxed pine floors. She had ripped out her IV and must have dropped the oatmeal bowl without really realizing what she’d been doing. The vacancy in her gaze told me that whatever fears lived inside of her had taken control of her completely.
I took a cautious step across the room.
She snapped out of it, eyes bouncing around the room before they landed on me. “Oh, shit,” she said. Her voice cracked, and looking at her standing there, her soft hair tousled down her narrow shoulders and blood staining her light skin, I felt something almost foreign.
It took me a couple seconds to recognize what it was. Protective instinct. I wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap and keep anything from hurting her again. That look in her eyes, the darkness that coiled beneath quipping jokes and glazed expressions—it made me want to kill something. Or someone, as the case was. That asshole was in for a rude introduction to Doctor Fuck Around and Find Out.
Laurel sniffed, looking around, and then crouched to her knees. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I was just—I don’t know. I’m such a mess.” She picked up shards of ceramic, trying futilely to clean them up. “Do you have some paper towels?”
I ate the distance between us with sure steps and took a knee beside her, grabbing her hands to stop them from getting cut. “It’s okay,” I said softly. I helped her to stand, and not wanting to freak her out, because seriously, it looked like a murder scene, I bent her arm at the elbow to staunch the bleeding.
She looked down despairingly. “Oh, God.”
“If you didn’t like my food,” I joked, gently guiding her back to the bed, “you could have just said so.”
Her eyes flew to mine, and after she realized I was joking, she released some pressure with a little exhale. “Ah, yeah,” tears spilled over her eyelids while she gave me a shaky smile. “Sorry.”
My heart broke in half. It did. There was no other explanation for the sudden, sharp pain I felt in my chest, like someone had dragged a dull scalpel through my pericardium. Everything in me screamed to make sure that look on her face never, ever happened again.
Still keeping a firm hold on her arm and trying valiantly to keep the blood from ruining anything else, I said, “I’m going to suggest a bandage, and then maybe you can take a bath.”
