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15. Escape
Cash
It takes forty-five minutes to get across the city to the hospital where Monica was brought in after someone found her unconscious in her car. The company driver pulls into the emergency entrance, and I hop out and rush through the automatic doors, attention zeroing in on the woman behind the circular counter.
“I’m looking for my wife, Monica Montgomery. She was brought in about an hour ago.”
Her fingers work over the keyboard. “She’s in room 209,” she says, directing me down the hall. I thank her before taking off in long strides, all but running down the corridor. But the closer I reach my wife’s room, the more I find myself holding my breath, unsure of what to expect.
A commotion sounds from the end of the hall, and I slow my steps, breath whooshing out of me before coming to a stop in the doorway of Monica’s room.
“Let me go!” she screams at the nurse, thrashing against the straps keeping her restrained to the bed. Detective Riley and his partner are already in the room. He steps forward, edging in at the nurse’s side.
“Mrs. Montgomery, your cooperation will make this a lot easier.”
“Stand out of the way,” the nurse admonishes Riley. “I’m trying to take care of my patient here.” She reaches for a syringe and administers a drug into Monica’s IV. Willing my heart rate to slow, I blink several times as Monica drifts off to sleep. Part of me thought she wouldn’t be in that bed.
I’d hoped the detective was wrong, and I’d come to the hospital and find out my wife didn’t actually try to kill herself.
But there she is, eyes shuttered and long, dark lashes sweeping over porcelain skin. A monotone voice comes through the speakers in a page for Dr. something-or-other. I don’t catch the name.
Because I’m frozen, sickened beyond belief, gaze glued to my wife’s body. Funny, how she seems so insignificant, so frail, so…not Monica.
Footsteps pad behind me, carrying someone down the spotless hallway. “You must be the husband?” a doctor asks.
I turn to face him. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Physically, yes. The man who found her got her help in time, and we were able to pump her stomach.”
“But?” I know there’s more—his hedging tone implies it.
“It’s too early to speak of her emotional state. She’ll need all the support she can get.” As his words sink in, I’m finding it hard to breathe again. She really tried killing herself.
And I can’t process it. Everything around me is in a metaphorical spin, and I’m powerless to stop it. I have so many questions, and zero fucking answers until Monica wakes up and talks to me. Assuming she will talk to me.
“She’ll be out for a while, but you’re welcome to go in,” the doctor says, gesturing toward the sleeping form of my wife. “Just keep the visits short. She’s allowed two visitors at a time. Immediate family only.”
With a nod, I take in a deep breath and let it out before stepping inside her room. Her raven hair is a stark contrast against the white pillow, making her seem so damn pale. The doctor reads over Monica’s chart, and the nurse finishes taking vitals before both of them leave the room. I settle into the chair at Monica’s bedside, swallowing the lump of sorrow and guilt collecting in my throat.
“Is my wife under arrest?” I ask the detectives standing on the other side of her bed.
“She hasn’t been charged yet, but we need to interview her.”
I’ve known her since we were kids, and regardless of what the evidence or circumstances might say, I know she isn’t a cold-blooded killer, though I don’t bother wasting my breath telling Riley and his partner that.
“We’ll come back later after she’s awake,” he says. “In the meantime, we’re posting an officer outside the room.”
“You just said she’s not being charged.”
“No, but she is a suspect.” Riley gives me a sympathetic nod on his way out, which surprises me. The stillness in the wake of their exit is unsettling. I study Monica as if watching her will give me a clue that will explain it all. Her lids suddenly flutter open, revealing sedated eyes that widen a little at the sight of me.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Cash…” Her voice fades as lines of distress slash across her face. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
Sorry for killing someone?
Sorry for lying to me for months?
