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Forty
Emilia satin the air ambulance while it rocked through the slow descent to the hospital roof. Blaine was propped upright on a stretcher, soaked in his own blood. She was also soaked in blood. Her own, Anthony’s, a great deal of Blaine’s… and they both stank of smoke.
Back in Harlow, she’d stood outside the cottage, the fire trucks with their hoses bursting forth with water, extinguishing flames while the paramedics freed her raw and heavily bruised wrists. The situation took another overwhelming turn the moment another set of paramedics pushed a giant needle through the top of Blaine’s ribcage
She froze in place, just as a deluge of blood squirted from the needle. Apparently, that meant he was bleeding internally and would need surgery. That’s when the air ambulance was phoned in. Meanwhile, he’d been set up with an IV line and a mask to help him breathe; she’d collapsed right there in the dirt before her home, only to wake minutes later, assaulted by the renewed memory of everything that had happened.
The adrenaline only now seeped from her body, and she began to shake, a weak sensation overrunning her body. She felt like she sat outside herself, watching this surreal moment unfold while she begged repeatedly for someone to tell her none of this was real. Blaine would be okay.
In reality, no one gave her a clear answer.
The helicopter now on the ground, she helplessly waited as Blaine was wheeled away from her, her heart sinking, the rest of her numb, save for the constant ache of her wounds. Her face. Her neck. Her hands.
She watched but somehow saw nothing. A woman going through the motions. But the motions of what? Pain and exhaustion, the discomfort of being a smoke-scented shell of herself. Even her hair clumped with blood.
Her entire life consisted of hearing the importance of being “put together.” Of playing her part. Well, now she was playing the part of something out of a horror movie.
A sob wrenched from her, jolting her ribcage up and down before hot tears seared her cheeks—no longer a woman going through the motions, but a woman unraveling. A woman who’d held so much in and together for far too long.
But this was no horror movie. This was real life. Her life.
She should have cared about what she looked like. Why didn’t she care?
She’d just killed a man. Her husband. Or her ex-husband.
Hadn’t she promised to love him forever too?
But he’d hurt her. Abused her. Degraded and disparaged. He’d stolen her life and coerced her in every way imaginable. He’d broken his vows first. To love and honor. Vows he’d insisted on taking.
Her tremors intensified, and her tears grew thicker, her grief no longer silent as a keening cry tore from her chest. The shame. She had so much shame. And now she’d have to tell everyone. Wouldn’t she? What he’d done to her. All those years. And then today. Physically attacking her, shooting Blaine, attempting to rape her while her house burned around them.
But there’d been a knife.
How had the knife gotten into her couch cushions?
Ally. Must have been Ally. The day before when they’d laughed at Aggie’s insistence that they hide knives about the place. Only Ally would think to stuff a knife down the side of a couch.
“Come along, darling.” A woman with a kindly looking face and russet hair crouched down before her and hooked her hands under Emilia’s arms, helping her out of her seat. “Let’s get you inside and clean those wounds.”
A broken laugh burst past Emilia’s lips, and her knees buckled the moment she tried to put any weight on her feet. The woman continued to prop her up, her help filling Emilia with more painful memories. This time, of her new friends.
The women of Harlow had saved her too. Aggie with her instant acceptance and those damn knives. Ally with her friendship. And Sarah with her selfless maturity. But would any of those women still love her? Harlow’s golden boy was fighting for his life. All because of her. A woman who was now a murderer.
And yes, as the woman helping her from the helicopter had stated, Emilia had wounds. So many wounds and in so many ways. Though some not as easily washed away as others.
She’d overheard the paramedics saying the wound on the back of her head would heal okay. But the one at the side of her face where Anthony had struck her with the gun, that one needed stitches. She’d have a scar where her cheek met her ear. And the bite mark on her neck? Well, she’d have a lighter scar there too. A scar in the same spot where Anthony had left his mark on Blaine all those years ago.
So many wounds and scars. Not all physical. Even if Blaine survived, Anthony had been right. They would remember him forever.
The next day, Emilia sat on a chair beside Blaine’s bed. She refused to stay in her room, and the hospital staff had given up trying to convince her. Or maybe they’d taken sympathy. Either way, she waited and watched, her hospital gown too loose and cool for her liking.
Blaine slept, something he’d done a lot in the last twenty-four hours. And all she wanted was to have a decent conversation with him. To tell him she loved him. To get some kind of sign he wasn’t so bad.
But he is bad. Look at what I did to him… Again.
She pressed a hand to her lips and tried not to cry. She didn’t want to risk him waking, only to find her in tears, even if she couldn’t shake the feeling that she should never have come to Harlow.
The sting in her eyes continued to nudge at her, so she shot from her seat and hurried out to the hallway. A row of beige chairs sat just outside his room, and she lowered herself down and allowed the tears to flow, a thing she’d become a true natural at lately.
