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“You’re going to take a week off, the way the doctor advised.” The captain narrows his eyes when I try to fight. “I’m not listening to any of your arguments. You were hit by a car, Emilia.”
“Sideswiped,” I remind him.
“Sideswiped hard enough for a doctor to tell you to stay on the couch for a week,” Craig reminds me, and I seriously wish he hadn’t been around to overhear my conversation with the doctor. The way he folds his arms and stares down at me, I wonder if he’s mistaking me for one of his kids.
“You have plenty of PTO banked, and it’s there to be used.” The captain zips his jacket. “I’ll drive you home, and we’ll arrange to have your car driven home for you from the station. You have nothing to worry about.”
So he thinks.
So I wish I could believe it.
Before Craig steps out so I can take off this thin hospital gown and get dressed, I ask, “How did you know what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you shout my name? Right before the car hit me?” I question, needing to know who called out to me.
He tips his head to the side, and I can practically hear him asking himself if I need a psych evaluation. “No. We heard a woman scream and looked over, and you were already on the ground.”
Right, and the voice wasn’t coming from his direction, anyway. “Somebody shouted my name. I’m sure of it,” I share, hoping they can get a lead.
“Maybe somebody who recognized you?”
If they had, why didn’t they come running like everybody else who witnessed the accident? If that’s, in fact, what it was.
His narrowed eyes tell me I’m in for an interrogation. “Are you really okay? You seem very shaken.”
“Like you said, I was hit by a car today.” I wave him out of the curtained-off area so I can slowly, painfully get dressed.
All right, I can admit there would be no way for me to work feeling the way I do. An ugly, deep purple bruise runs from my hip down to the middle of my thigh. My knees are bruised and scraped up as well as the palms of my hands. All in all, I got lucky, even if I don’t feel that way now, when every nerve ending throbs painfully.
Did somebody see the car coming and try to warn me? Who would do that? How could they possibly know who I am?
The question is still fresh in my mind by the time I get home. No way am I leaving this apartment in the immediate future. It took both Craig and the captain supporting me on either side to get me up the three floors. Now that the rush of adrenaline has dwindled, the pain is fresher, more raw, bringing it to the forefront.
Thankfully, they did send me home with a small bottle of painkillers. I would avoid them, but I don’t think I have that luxury at the moment.
After running a hot bath, I take one of the pills and wash it down with a lot of water, then get undressed. I’m hoping the combination of meds and soaking in a hot bath will lessen the soreness. If only I felt safe in my home. Knowing I couldn’t possibly move fast enough to defend myself if danger came knocking is torture, plain and simple. Rather than leave my gun in its holster, I place it on top of the toilet tank, which should be close enough to reach it if anything happens.
After what feels like forever, I lower myself into the steaming water, then settle back with my neck against a rolled-up towel.
Of all the stupid things that could possibly happen.
I don’t want to believe someone saw me crossing the street and hit the gas, but…
I sink a little deeper in the water, shutting out the rest of that thought before it can fully form. I am not going to let myself go down that path. Nobody is trying to kill me.
But who called my name?
The click of a lock disengaging doesn’t get my heart thumping right away. I’m floating in a haze, grateful for the pain to ease for a little while. But it’s enough that it stirs me, making me alert, and I hold my breath to listen hard in case I once again have imagined something that didn’t happen.
But it did happen because the hinges on the front door squeak ever so slightly as someone eases it open.
Fuck. I reach out, straining for the gun, which now feels so far away. The pill! I’m looking at the room through a fisheye lens, everything distorted and a little dreamy. I may as well have left the gun in the holster by the front door. It feels so far away. My heart is pounding, and I’m gasping for air, rising up on my knees, leaning over the edge of the tub, and straining for the gun.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Footsteps cross my living room, coming closer to the open bathroom door.
There’s no way I can be quiet. They probably know I’m here anyway, whoever they are. I half climb, half fall out of the tub after trying one more time to reach the gun and knocking it to the floor. Luckily, I left the safety engaged as it skitters between the toilet and the vanity without accidentally discharging. I slide my shivering body over the cold tile, reaching out in desperation, fumbling to grasp my only chance of survival.
