A brief hissing noise hit my ear, and to my surprise, tiny drops of rain began to pelt me.
No. Not rain. Nothere.
A scrabbling in the rocks by my head told me someone, or something, was approaching.Fuck.Raising myself partially off the now-damp grass, I managed to partially roll my body over with a groan, heart rate quickening, knowing that even if I could get up, there’d be no chance of escape.
But there was no need. Through my blurred vision, in the partial moonlight, I could spot a dog, a mottled blue-gray border collie with one pale eye, panting and jumping around me in excitement, not quite getting the picture. She turned her wet nose under my arm, sniffing furiously, and I could just make out a name on the collar:Thalia.
The Greek muse of comedy. How appropriate, because this exercise in improv was all becoming a brilliant farce. Might as well send in the clowns.
As much as I knew I needed help—and water, and rest, and aloe,somuch aloe—I prayed that by some miracle this dog, collared and well-fed and well-groomed, was unattached to a person. I didn’t want to be found by a person. Ihatedpeople. People enslaved and tortured and killed others for no reason at all and turned their victims into people who enslaved and tortured and killed others in turn, fueling an endless water wheel of pain and grief no one seemed to know how to stop.
Plus, a person would call an ambulance, and an ambulance meant police. It meant giving statements. It meant contacting my parents and being forced to confess everything I had seen. And worst of all,whoI had seen. I had no reason to think that my dad, once he heard that one of them washim, would give a fuck about the rest of it, even if it meant his own downfall. And I had no reason to think that whoever owned that dog, especially in a neighborhood like this, would give one, either.
“Miss?” A cell phone light cast the vaguest heat on my face. It was accompanied by the voice of a young person ofindeterminate gender. “Miss?” They turned to someone in the distance.
“What.” My attempt to reply came out as a groan.
Shoes crunched on rocks as the person kneeled, though they didn’t touch me. “Shhh. It’s okay. My—my mistress is a nurse. Well, sort of.”
I’d been found by a slave. Well, fantastic. One thing was for sure: Whoever this mistress was, nurse or not, I’d rather wither and die out here than interact with her.
“Ivy! Ivy! Come quick!”
Before I could remark that it was an odd way to address a mistress, Thalia, the collie, whimpered, her warm, furry body pressed against me protectively.ThatI was okay with. This person might own slaves, but at least she had a nice dog.
Another pair of footsteps joined the first, then more crunching.
“Shit. Oh, shit. What happened to—” A cool hand pressed to my forehead, my throat, feeling for breath, a pulse. Smoothed back my hair. Startled by the gentle touch, I wasn’t sure whether to recoil or lean into it.
“Wait.” A second light shone closer to my pupils. “Louisa? Little Loulou? Is that you?”
“Huh?”
“I-I’m Ivy. Ethan’s friend. Oh, you remember me, don’t you? No, of course you don’t.”
But I did, and she’d once been more than Ethan’s friend. They used to date, and I remembered her as tall and thin and stylish and enviably gorgeous, like all of his girlfriends. Butunlikemost of them, also smart and nice. After they’d broken up, she had stayed friends with my brother—partying and drinking and using, of course, but I’d still enjoyed seeing her every once in a while. When Ethan disappeared, I lost touch with Ivy, too, andit seemed safe to assume that her life had gone much the way of his.
But what if it hadn’t?
What if she’d married some rich jerk and lived in this neighborhood and owned a gaggle of slaves and?—
“P-please.” I jerked my body away from her touch.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ivy interrupted. “Don’t try to talk. Just lie still. God only knows what injuries you have. I’m going to touch you to check, okay?”
I felt a light pressure on my crusted-over eyelid, which refused to open. The chemise was bunched up and thrown aside again. A smooth hand slid into mine.
“Can you squeeze? Okay, not really. I’ll call for help. Can you tell me—no, shit, scratch that. I told you not to talk.” She seemed to be digging deep for some nursing training that she hadn’t paid much attention to the first time around.
I groaned more insistently, trying to choke out the one thing I needed to say before I gave up on trying to talk altogether. “Please,” I spat. “Please don’t call the police.”
“But—”
“No!” I said, as frustrated as a barely verbal toddler.
She sighed. “Louisa, listen. I was an addict. I OD’d twice. The only reason I’m alive is because both times, my friends drove me to the hospital, dumped me off at the entrance, and drove away. Believe me. I get it. I won’t call the police. I won’t even ask you what happened if you don’t want me to. But youdoneed help. Luckily, Icanhelp, but the problem is, we’re a mile away from my house, and we’re in the middle of a golf course.”
Well, shit. That explained the “rain.” It was a sprinkler. Figures I’d end up on a golf course of all places. The way my luck was going, Daddy probably had an early morning round scheduled.
