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She starts to cry, huge wracking sobs. All she wants to do is see her husband, hold her daughter. Alice has lost her father. She should be with her. How can they possibly think she had anything to do with this?
But then she hears voices outside the curtain. She stops and strains to listen. Hushed, urgent tones. Something important.
“Just because the smoke alarms didn’t have batteries doesn’t mean she murdered her husband.” She recognizes the voice: the male detective again, gruff and annoyed.
“No, but her fingerprints were on the watering can that held the paraffin. What does that say to you?” A woman this time, obviously not happy. “And she has a record—have you even read her file? No, of course you haven’t.”
Jess’s mind is reeling. Somehow she still believed that the fire had been an accident. That some faulty wiring or damaged plug had caused a spark. But this? And they know. About what happened two years ago. About—
“I don’t agree.”
“Griffin, with all due respect, I don’t give a shit. You are not working for the police. This is not your case. You shouldn’t even be here.” Jess lifts her head, and through a tiny gap in the curtain, she can see the woman’s face. Mouth pinched, eyes cast down. She looks as if there’s a hundred things she’s holding back from saying.
“Have you asked her about the earring?”
“Seriously, Griffin, this theory of yours …”
“Have you?”
“The fucking earring has nothing to do with the other cases. This is a separate investigation. My investigation. Not everything is connected.” A pause. An intake of breath, then a long sigh. “Fine. As soon as the doctor clears her, we’ll arrest her and we can ask.”
“And when will that be?”
“Right now, if it were up to me. But she had a nasty fall, and I don’t want her keeling over in a cell.” The man goes to say something, but she cuts him off. “Seriously, Griffin. Enough. Stay away from my suspect, I’m warning you.”
Jess listens to footsteps as the woman stomps away, then closes her eyes quickly as a hand pulls back the curtain. She imagines the man standing there—the man who’s apparently not a detective, who seems to be on her side—then hears an exhale as the curtain is replaced and his heavy boots fade into the distance.
She opens her eyes again and feels tears prickle behind them. She puts her hand up, tentatively feeling the bandage. She looks at the drip going into her arm. She’s stuck in a hospital bed with a detective, poised to arrest her, who believes she killed her husband and tried to kill her daughter. A daughter whom she’s not allowed to see, whom she can’t hold in her arms and comfort and tell her that everything will be okay. What sort of mother is she?
She can explain her fingerprints—it was probably her watering can, that she’d used a hundred times before in the garden. But the paraffin? That she doesn’t know. And she’s seen the shows on Netflix; she knows that once the police have a theory, that’s all they’ll go after. They’re blinkered, blind to any other possibilities.
She’s met police like this woman before. Cold, unfeeling eyes, seeing her as one thing, and one thing alone, and never changing their mind. She remembers the pull of her arms behind her. The cold metal on her wrists, sharp gravel against her cheek. She remembers the feeling of complete helplessness and the certain knowledge that she was never going to let that happen again.
Her mouth feels dry and fuzzy, so she reaches over and takes a drink from the glass of water on the table. It’s warm.
She looks at Nav. He’s fast asleep, leaning to one side. Jess knows what she has to do. And she has to do it now.
She sits up. Her head spins and she feels slightly sick, making it hard to get out of bed. Hard, but not impossible.
She looks at the IV in her arm and removes the dressing, then pulls the needle slowly out. Red blooms at the injection site, and she picks up a tissue from the box next to her, pushing it hard against it.
She shuffles around, both feet now on the floor. She stands up slowly and glances at Nav. But he hasn’t stirred. She feels the cold waft around her. She’s wearing no more than a backless hospital gown.
She can’t see her T-shirt anywhere and realizes with a jolt that the detectives probably have it as evidence. She opens the cabinet next to her bed and says a silent thank-you to her mother—a few basic toiletries and a pile of brand new clothes have been left. Underwear, tracksuit bottoms, a pullover. She puts them on, along with socks and a pair of sneakers. With the brush and elastic tie, she pulls her hair back into a high ponytail, doing her best with her disheveled appearance. She forces a smile onto her face. This will work. It has to.
She goes over to Nav and gently pulls his bag away from his feet. Jess rests it on the bed, scrabbling inside.
Her fingers come in contact with cold metal, and she pulls the car keys out. As an afterthought she takes whatever cash is in his wallet.
“Sorry, Nav,” she whispers.
She knows this is a bad idea. She knows that when she is injured, the worst thing she can do is ignore a doctor’s advice, but this is different. This is an emergency.
But to leave her daughter?
On wobbly legs, she pushes the curtain aside. The ward seems empty, so she walks out.
She follows the signs to the ICU. Doors open automatically as she goes. It’s late, and the corridors are deserted; her progress goes unchallenged.
