I frown. Or try to. My face is too numb to know for sure.
Snippets from the day Wayne died slip in again. The argument. Wayne and a man with an Aussie accent disagreeing about something. I told the SDPD about the argument, but there were no signs that someone else had been in the house. The cops thought I was lying. And I’d felt out of it from whatever drugs I’d been given—like I do now. Like I was gripping on to the edge of the world, knowing if I let go, I’d be forever lost.
Over time, I began to believe I imagined the argument.
I began to doubt the events of that night as I remembered them.
The only thing I was positive about was that I didn’t kill my husband. Someone else pulled the trigger.
“You killed Wayne,” I mutter incoherently even to my ears, my gaze locked on Not-Lincoln. “You killed Wayne. You killed Wayne.” It’s my new chant, one I fully embrace.
“What’s she talking about?” Lincoln demands, his tone terrifyingly fierce.
I keep chanting, my eyelids giving up the attempt to stay open.
A loud bang assaults my ears. A heavythudfollows. With what little strength I have left, I open my eyes. Lincoln is lying in a pool of blood. His blood.
I’m vaguely aware of other sounds coming from somewhere inside the building.
I start to slouch sideways. Another loud bang fills the room.
Excruciating pain rips through my shoulder, but I barely make a noise. Dazed, I glance down. Red spreads across my pink top near my shoulder, swallowing smeared stains and dried dirt. After the lack of anything to drink for the past few days, I’m surprised to see the blood.
The room explodes with activity.
My body no longer feels like it belongs to me. I slump to the side, falling off the chair.
Someone catches me. I blink them into focus. Noah? The world is too fuzzy—he’s too fuzzy—for me to know for sure. Maybe I’m already dead, and I’m imagining all of this. That last ray of hope before I finally slip away.
“We need a medic!” he yells through the fog in my brain. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking toward the door.
He gently lowers me to the ground.
“He k-killed Wayne. He killed Wayne.” I have no idea if Noah understands what I’m saying. He’s talking to me, but I can’t make out his words.
In the background, a man is telling Not-Lincoln he’s under arrest for the murder of Wayne Townsend, obstruction of justice in the murder of my late husband, and for weapons trafficking. The rest of the words drift into a haze.
“T-tell Troy I l-love him,” I whisper-croak, knowing I won’t survive this to tell Troy myself. “T-tell him that I w-would have loved t-to have a f-family with him.”Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap…
My shivering stops and blackness welcomes me with warm open arms.
65
TROY
October, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Jess’s faceis so pale against the hospital pillow, if it weren’t for the steady beeping of the ICU monitors, I would think she was dead.
I tighten my hold on her hand, as if that’s all it will take to keep her from departing this world. I haven’t left her side since I was finally allowed to see her this morning. Her eyes are closed, partly due to the swelling on one side of her face where the bastards repeatedly hit her.
Every part of her body is bruised or bandaged or both. Samuel told me she’d been beaten with what could have been a belt. She’s got a long recovery ahead of her.
I can’t believe I almost lost her.
Noah enters the room in uniform. He was the one who called me yesterday to tell me Jess had been found—two days after I learned she was missing.
