Zeth’s late.

 

He said he would be around by eight and he isn’t here. I’ve been back at my apartment for approximately one hour, long enough to grab some clothes and toiletries, plus my computer and my medical bag, and the rest of the time I’ve been sitting on my couch, waiting. Waiting for Zeth to show up. And so far he hasn’t. It’s eight forty-five. Forty-five minutes late. Where the hell is he? Zeth doesn’t exactly strike me as a guy who would be late for anything. It goes hand in hand with the whole honesty thing. If he says he’s gonna do something, he’s the type of person who does it, no excuses. Which has caused a deep well of doubt within me; maybe I shouldn’ have admitted that I wanted him in my life earlier. Maybe that was the stupidest thing I could ever have said to a man like him. My mother always did say that a guy would lose interest the moment you made things too easy for him. I’m pretty sure she was referring to sex at the time, though, and Zeth has already had that from me. No, sex has never been the real challenge between us. It’s what’s inside us that’s been the hardest thing to crack, and I gave in earlier, after holding off for so long. And now Zeth Mayfair hasn’t come to collect me.

 

I feel like throwing up.

 

It’s nine fifteen when my cell phone rings. I answer, heart pounding in my chest. “Zeth? Where are you? I—”

 

“Lost him already, sweetheart?” the man on the other end of the line asks. Rebel. Fucking Rebel, not Zeth. Again! He makes a soft chuckling noise, breath distorting the line. “You need me to send out the search party?”

 

I can’t fucking believe it. This guy just doesn’t seem to know when he’s not welcome, be that in person or on the other end of a phone. “What the hell do you want, Rebel?”

 

“Just checking to see what time you’re gonna be arriving. I’m having trouble keeping your sister in bed. Strange, really. I’ve never had that problem before. Usually I have problems getting her out of it.”

 

“Oh my god, you did not just say that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. Tonight just keeps getting better. First I’ve totally screwed things up with Zeth, and now my brand-new brother-in-law is spilling about his sex life with my asshole of a sister. Something else is bound to happen, something utterly horrifying—they do say these things happen in threes. I don’t even want to think about what the third thing might be.

 

“Rebel, I’m not coming. I already told you—”

 

“Check your email,” he says. And then he hangs up.

 

“Fucking—fuck you, asshole!” I glare at my phone, grinding my teeth together, wishing just for a moment that the guy was standing in front of me so I could punch him in his face. Unbelievable. And he wants me to check my email? How on earth did he get my freaking email address? I don’t give that to anyone. I only have my work account, and the only people who have that are the hospital and Pippa. Not even my folks have it. But sure enough when I check the mail icon on my cell, there, among the numerous unread notices from St. Peter's, is a message from an address I don't recognize: [email protected]. Fastfuck83? Seriously? That sounds like a spam account from a sex site. The subject line is the only reason why I even open the damn message. It reads: body temp: 102, 140/90, PaCO2 36 mmHG. Only someone wanting to get a doctor's attention would send numbers like that. They’re patient stats...and they’re bad ones.

 

Inside the email, the message reads:

 

 

 

 

3412 Freemantle

 

Ribera, NM

 

87560

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s nothing else. I google Ribera, New Mexico, and quickly find that it’s a tiny community not far from Santa Fe. The population is only just over a thousand people. It’s obviously where Rebel’s taken my sister.

 

Those stats are terrible. They indicate my sister has a seriously bad infection that’s affecting the rest of her body, on the brink of shutting it down. Her blood pressure is dangerously high, and her temperature is through the roof. Plus those CO2 levels are reduced, too. It all points to sepsis. Either Alexis is in really bad shape, or Rebel’s figured out how to make it look like she is. Regardless, I still just can’t bring myself to hightail it over there. I just can’t. Ever since we left the hospital in San Jacinto, I’ve been trying so hard to let go of the anger that’s been gnawing at me. The anger that Lexi caused when she lied and consciously made a decision to let me, Mom and Dad live through hell the past few years. It was unforgivably selfish. And then to tell this guy that I didn’t care about her, that my work was more important, after everything I did and gave up to try and find her? No. Just no. I hit reply.

 

 

 

 

Take her to a hospital.

 

 

 

 

That’s it. That’s all I give him. If he wants to keep things short and sweet, then I am more than happy to return the favor. If he loves her as Lexi claims he does, he won’t risk not getting her the attention she may or may not need. To have even gotten those CO2 readings in the first place, he would have needed access to a doctor and a lab, so I’m clearly not the only person he can turn to.

 

Outside, the skyline is lit up in the distance, all oranges, reds and whites. The sight of all those people only serves to make me feel even more alone. I moved out to the sticks to get away from everyone. To hide. And now I desperately don’t want to be hidden away. It’s not safe for starters, but I want to be seen again. I want to feel like I exist. I want to know that someone will actually notice if I go missing. By ten o’clock, Zeth still hasn’t shown up and I’ve had enough. I grab my bag and my jacket and I head out the front door. I lock up behind me, not sure when I’ll ever be going back.

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

A car engine is a beautiful thing. The way it works is so organized, so accurate—one mechanical part working in harmony with a multitude of others in order to create motion. The human body is the same. A chain of reactions monitored by organs that are so delicately tuned, cooperating, functioning together in a delicate balance. If one of those organs fails, the body fails. If one of the engine parts fails, the car fails.

 

However, everything is working well as I steer the Volvo in the direction of the city; it feels as though my body and the car are almost one machine, coordinating in unison. Left. Right, left, right. I pass the other vehicles on the freeway, the wet whooshing sounds of tires on wet blacktop growing louder and fading away as I pass and leave them behind. The squeaky drag of the windshield wipers; my breathing; the low hum of the radio; radio announcers talking in lulling deep voices; the rain lightly drumming on the roof of the car. The drive is almost hypnotic.

 

I know where I’m heading and it isn’t back to Pippa’s. I may have been a little socially distant around my work colleagues, but I was never a complete shut-in. I have Oliver, and I have Suresh. And I have an on-call room at the hospital that I can easily spend the night in without anyone bothering me. It won’t be a problem; everyone else seems to live in the hospital already as it is. I’m due back to work later in the week, so no one will be all that surprised to see me, anyway.

 

I feel more and more confident about my decision as I travel in the direction of St. Peter’s. I’m even hoping that maybe the night shift will need covering and I can get some hours in the ER. The hustle and bustle, the rush of reviving someone. Yeah, that’s exactly what I need. Outside of the hospital I feel less in control. Inside the walls of my work place, everything changes. Everything solidifies, becomes more real. I’m in control there. I am the one with the power.

 

I change lanes, passing more vehicles. The bright headlights of the other cars create white spears of light into the darkness, illuminating individual raindrops for a moment before they vanish in the blink of an eye. An intense light glares at me in the rearview—some asshole with his high beams on. I angle the mirror down, but the lights seem to grow even brighter.

 

“Back up, buddy. What, you wanna climb right up into my ass?” It’s not safe that he’s so close. I move back to the right-hand lane, growling a little under my breath as I give the bastard room to move past me. He doesn’t move past me, though. He follows me into the other lane.

 

A sinking chord of dread pulls taut inside me as the car behind creeps even closer this time. Far, far, far too close. I’m being followed. Adrenalin pulses into me, and it feels as though my veins are carrying electric currents through them, like there are too-hot wires burning just beneath my skin. This is bad. This is really bad. There’s no way for me to pull off the road, no exit for me to take that will lead me to safety. I’ve forgotten all about getting to St. Peter’s now; the first store, gas or cop station I come across, I’m getting the hell out of this car and in front of some witnesses. Charlie’s guys can’t shoot me in front of witnesses. Can they? My foot hits the accelerator, making the Volvo roar. Screw the speed limit. Screw safe driving in the rain. I am getting the hell away from this guy. It seems he might have other ideas, though.

 

Crunch.

 

The Volvo lurches as the car behind makes impact. The sound of crumpling metal blocks out all other sound. No more tires on wet blacktop. No more raindrops pattering on the roof. Only the screech of complaining steel.

 

“Shit!” The car jolts forward, skidding a little, and I almost lose the back end. “What the fuck!?”

 

My foot slams down on the gas again as I steer into the spin. “Go, go, go!” I shout it, as if sheer will power will right the car and make it move faster. But it’s not moving faster. If anything it seems to be moving slower. A string of expletives that would make my father blush rush out of my mouth as I lean forward in my seat. “Come on!”

 

The car behind is still right on my tail. Through a brief break in the rain, I can see it a little clearer for a moment—a black, sleek thing, low to the ground. Looks like a sports car. I’m gonna be killed by someone driving a freaking hairdresser’s car. Seriously?

 

Car horns blare as I rip past them, trying to shake the guy off, but it’s no good. One mile, and then two, and he’s still right on me, stuck like gum. I have to do something. I have to do something. Ihavetodosomething!

 

Fumbling, I reach for my purse on the passenger seat. My cell is in the small pocket at the side where I always keep it, close at hand. Thank god it’s not buried underneath all the crap inside. I hit the number 1 and then the green call button.

 

It rings. Nothing. Rings…

 

“Hello?”

 

Relief breaks out in a cold sweat across my shoulders. “Oh, thank fuck.”

 

“Romera, is that you?” Oliver. Dr. Oliver Massey, who jokingly stored his cell number as speed dial number one when I first got my phone, because he knew I didn’t know how the hell to change it. Fuck. I should have changed it to the emergency services. I should hang up and dial 911. I should—

 

“Sloane? Hey, are you there?”

 

Hearing his voice makes my heartbeat slow a little. Oh, fuck it. “Oliver? Oliver, yes, it’s me. Listen. I need you to do me a favor. I need you to come down to the lobby and come outside. I think—I think I’m being follow—”

 

Another almighty crash rocks the car. This time I do lose the back end. Panic means my reaction times are slowed, even though my body is trying to counteract that by pumping me full of adrenalin.

 

I’m suddenly spun one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the wrong way down the freeway, and I’ve slammed on the breaks. Cars tear past me, swerving, inches away from the hood.

 

“Shit, shit, shit.” My body won’t work. I’m fumbling for the keys, trying to turn the engine over, but I just can’t seem to make it happen. My hands feel like rubber gloves filled with ice water, completely numb and boneless.

 

I finally do it, finally get the car started, just in time to look up and see another set of headlights, headed straight for me. I know the face I make—I’ve seen countless people in the movies wearing it, just before their car is involved in a horrific collision that generally smears them across the sidewalk. This car’s too close to swerve. I freeze; I wait. I see the other driver—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. I see the look of panic in his eyes as he realizes what’s about to happen, too.

 

And then he hits me.

 

The car twists around, and for a moment it feels like I’m trapped in a bumper car. Except this is a bumper car on crack. My body is rag-dolled sideways; my shoulder hits the driver door. I register an unpleasant crunch come from my arm—please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken—and the world becomes black and white and red as night and headlight and taillight take over. Around and around, it feels as though the car’s never going to stop. I close my eyes, shield my head as broken glass rains down on me. I breathe; I pull in breath after breath, my ribs flaring with pain, my heartbeat slamming in my ears.

 

And then I realize that it’s over.

 

The Volvo is still the right way up. My vision wavers as I try and focus on my surroundings—the car that hit me is crumpled against the barrier. There are already people out of their vehicles and running toward both my car and the other guy’s. Black shapes flicker in my vision as a hand reaches inside the car and unclips my seatbelt.

 

“Are you alright? Miss? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

 

My ears are ringing. Firm hands help me out of the car. The rain is coming down harder now, slamming into the roadway, rising back up again like flowers blooming right out of the blacktop. A slew of questions are thrown at me, but I don’t hear any of them. I’m looking back up the other end of the freeway, where a streamlined Aston Martin is idling on the shoulder fifty yards ahead. It’s definitely the car that hit me first, I’m sure of it.

 

It pauses there, as if the person inside is assessing the damage, and then its engine snarls and it burns off into the night.