I catch Hannah in the hallway outside talking to the Sheriff on duty at the door to the ICU.
Hannah sees me and breaks off her conversation, heading straight over. ‘Why are there police on the door?’ she demands, a flash of fear in her eyes.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I reassure her. ‘It’s just a precaution.’
‘What for?’ she asks. ‘Is June in some kind of danger?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say, though I can tell she’s not buying it. ‘Where are you staying tonight?’ I ask, changing the subject so she can’t dwell too much on it.
‘I don’t know,’ Hannah answers. ‘Not in the house though.’ She shudders at the thought, wrapping her arms around her body.
‘It’s still a crime scene,’ I tell her. ‘We can’t go home until the police say we can. Why don’t you and Gene stay with Laurie and Dave? They spoke to your father and said you could.’ You’ll be safe there, I think, but don’t say. Despite Nate’s reassurances I can’t help but worry that the men will return to the house. It’s stupid – I mean, why would they risk it? But still I can’t shake the fear. I don’t know how I’ll ever feel normal again, how I’ll ever get rid of the terror gnawing away on my insides.
‘What about Dad?’ Hannah asks.
‘He’s going to stay here so someone can be with June.’
Hannah walks me back to my room and waits while the nurse records my blood pressure and the doctor shines a little light in my eyes and checks all my responses.
‘How’s the pain?’ he asks me. ‘Still have a headache?’
‘It’s getting better,’ I tell him. It’s now just a dull ache interrupted by the occasional savage spear of pain, usually if I move my head too fast.
‘The scar won’t show. It’ll be covered by your hair,’ he says and I snort. As if I care about what I look like.
‘How much longer do I need to be here?’ I say.
‘I’d like to keep you in for observation for one more day, just to make sure there are no complications.’ He makes a move for the door.
‘Oh my God,’ Hannah says as he leaves, pointing out the window. ‘Have you seen how many news crews there are outside?’
I shuffle to the window and look down. Below us, outside the main entrance to the hospital, are dozens of news crews and vans.
Hannah moves to the bedside table to pick up the television remote and before I can argue she’s flicked the TV on. CNN comes up and my jaw drops open as I see a picture of our house. It’s film footage shot from a helicopter. You can see Gene’s old green Highlander parked in our drive alongside a dozen police cars, yellow tape crisscrossing the front door and the entrance to the garage. People in white jumpsuits, like you see in the movies, are walking in and out of the house and Gene’s apartment over the garage. It’s on mute but the scrolling headline across the bottom blares: INTERNET ENTREPRENEUR’S DAUGHTER SHOT IN HOME INVASION . . . DAUGHTER IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
‘Turn it off,’ I whisper.
Hannah clicks it off. ‘This is insane,’ she whispers back.
There’s a pause while I wonder how we’ll ever go home after this. I can’t imagine stepping foot in the house again, let alone spending a night there.
‘Do you think they’ll catch them?’ Hannah asks, looking at me, terrified.
‘Yes,’ I tell her, wanting to erase the look of fear on her face, but the truth is I don’t know.
Chapter 12
DAY 3
Something wakes me in the early hours of the morning. I burst into consciousness with my heart pounding, sweat pasting my hair to the pillow. Disorientated, I glance around, relaxing a little when I see Robert slumped in a chair fast asleep and the reassuring shadow of the police officer standing on duty outside. But then I become aware of the pain in my head. What did I just dream about? Something niggles at me. There was something I needed to remember.
‘Are you OK? Do you need something?’ It’s Robert. He’s awake and on his feet, hovering over me.
‘No, I’m OK,’ I tell him. ‘Why aren’t you with June?’
‘They needed to run some more tests and I was in the way, so I came to check on you. I must have fallen asleep.’
I reach over and take his hand. In the dim light I can see the bruises on his face are turning a mottled blue and purple color and he has pouchy bags beneath his eyes. ‘You look tired,’ I say.
He shakes the comment off and reaches over to the light switch, turning it up so he can see to pour a glass of water. The gesture triggers a memory.
‘How did they get in?’ I ask.
Robert doesn’t answer. He busies himself pouring the water.
‘Why was the house alarm off?’ I press.
‘I turned it off,’ Robert says quietly, handing me the glass.
‘Why?’
‘I took the trash out and forgot to reset it.’
I frown. The alarm came with the house and the first time I saw it I laughed. I mean, why was it needed? We live in a place where the crime rate is so low it often wins accolades for being the safest town in southern California. We have a police department of two.
Robert’s head is bowed. He’s waiting for me to say something but I bite my tongue. I want to yell at him, scream at him. Why did he forget to reset the alarm? None of this would have happened but for one stupid mistake – a mistake that might cost us our daughter. I grind my teeth but I know if I let my anger out, there will be no reining it back in. How can I blame him? I’m looking for a
