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A beat. “He might. It’s not looking great.”
I close my eyes.Oh, Daddy. Not you, too.The bright light is making my head pound.
“Who’s here to see me, then?” I ask.
Elliot clears his throat. “Your uncle. Your cousin, Nathan. Your friend, Jennifer. And your fiancé?” I open my eyes just so I can roll them when he says the word fiancé, scowling at the thought of seeing Joshua.
“And some guy named Will.”
My scowl vanishes.
Will.I haven’t cried at all during this whole ordeal, not since I woke up and started fighting the tube in my throat, but I blink back salt-laden tears when I think about Will.
“Will is — was — my boyfriend.”
“I can send them all away, if you want,” he adds. “I can tell them all to get out of here and come back when you’re ready to see them.” He doesn’t comment on the fact that I have a fiancé and a boyfriend, two distinct, differing entities. I wouldn’t know how to explain if he did.
“I want to see Rome,” I blurt out. Elliot looks away again. Somebody should really tell him he has a horrible poker face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “No can do. He’s in holding until his hearing tomorrow, and I very much doubt he’ll make bail.”
“He’ll make bail,” I say quickly. A little too quickly. I must sound pathetic.
“What I mean is, I don’t think the judge will offer him bail,” Elliot clarifies. “He’ll be deemed a flight risk. And there’s no way your family isn’t putting a word in to the judge to make absolutely certain he doesn’t walk.”
Desperation floods through me, a torrent of sorrow. I hate being out of control. I loathe being somebody’s victim. But even more than that, I despise the fact that Rome has been cast as the villain in all of this.
“It wasn’t him,” I say. “He shouldn’t be locked up. He’s as much a victim as me. Don’t you know what they did to him?”
Elliot’s pale blue eyes search mine. “I know what he did to you,” he replies gravely. “Isawwhat he did to you.”
Something in his tone tells me he’s talking about more than just the injuries he’s seen. I think of the tiny flashing light that blinked every time that fucking sicko was recording us.
“What do you mean, you saw?” I whisper, already suspecting the answer.
Elliot looks at the ceiling. “He was recording everything and streaming it over a private internet chatroom.”
Motherfucker.
“We saw everything. The newspapers, the cutting.” He takes a breath. “The collar.”
I gasp, causing the little tears inside my throat that the breathing tube made to vibrate painfully. “Then you must know it wasn’t him!” I say. “You would know it wasn’t him at all. Didn’t you see the other guy in there? Didn’t you hear what he was making usdo?”
“Sometimes when people are held captive for a long time, they can start to develop bonds with their—”
“If you say the word Stockholm, I will fucking end you!” I seethe.
I’m yelling now, and my throat can’t handle that. I start to cough. Elliot picks up the pitcher of water on the side table beside my hospital bed and pours water into a salmon pink plastic cup, then hands it to me. It’s a nice gesture for somebody who I just threatened to end, but obviously, he doesn’t take me seriously. Nobody listens to crazy, suicidal girls, and in this case, that’s probably a good thing. My shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
Elliot smiles as if we share a secret. “No need to apologize.”
I drink the water. It tastes odd. Of course it tastes odd. I haven’t had any water that hasn’t been laced with some kind of tranquilizer for - weeks? Months?
I don’t even know.
“How long were we in there for?” I ask Elliot. I should know. I had to bleed on that damn newspaper every day, but after the first few times, I stopped counting.
“I think we can talk about this after you’ve—“
