She isn’t answering her phone. Avoiding calls from me. Her father. Lo. Jase. I even asked Francis. It’s been three weeks of searching. She’s gone.
Something is wrong. I went too far. After talking to Lo, it all made sense. I fucked up and hurt my wife. My words were too strong, too hurtful.
She’s struggling.
Lo mentioned Joey’s arms when I asked if they heard from her.
How had I not noticed she started cutting again?
How did she hide the marks?
Why am I such a fucking loser?
My heart races as I stalk our accounts. Then, as if a siren is blaring, I see that our card was used at a fry shop. The one right by the cove she used to love to surf at. I get in my car and break every law known to man to get there.
“What can I do—”
“I need to find my wife. She’s not responding, and she’s suicidal,” I practically yell at the older woman before showing her a picture of Joey.
“You have to help me, please. The cops are on their way.”
And they are, I called them before driving here.
“She came in a few weeks ago, sad little poppet. She had smears of make-up and tears so fresh my flowers bloomed from them.”
“Please, ma’am. I need to find her.”
“She’s in room twenty-one. The middle tower.”
“Where’s that?” I question, feeling a deep-seated need to save her rush through me. She points and then hands me a key. I’m running, faster than I’ve ever done, and I head up the stairs. She’s only two floors up, and the elevator won’t be quick enough.
This gnawing in my stomach is telling me something is god-awfully wrong, and I can’t stand worrying anymore. I haven’t felt this way since Lo overdosed. And even then, I didn’t feel this much of a foreboding, so it only solidifies my belief that Joey and I are soulmates. Inevitable.
Fate.
Not circumstance.
I find her room and scan through. It’s silent. Not even her favorite heartbreak playlist is playing. She does that, goes on music binges to convey how she’s feeling. As soon as I see the hallway, I see red spots on the ground. My stomach heaves with a rush of nausea.
Rushing into the bathroom, I see my wife. Jameson in hand. A knife on the floor, covered in blood. Her eyes closed.
Her skin is covered in blood, red and sliced up.
“Why would you do this?” I yell, unable to calm the frantic pulse of my heart. “Why, Josephine? Why!” I scream and feel my chest heaving with pressure. I cry, my fucking eyes burn with the tears and their rampant need to escape. It hurts feeling them bleed from me, and I lift my wife as I sob. She’s cold and as white as a sheet. I don’t know if she’s breathing, but I can’t seem to settle enough to check. I place my head at her throat and hear wheezing. She’s still breathing. But why is she so white? So cold? So numb?
I bawl as I hold her to my chest, not knowing the protocol for this situation. Lo wasn’t a serial cutter. How do I prepare for this kind of depression?
I barely survived when Loren went through it, but someone as vital to me as breathing? There’s no way I’ll survive if I lose her. The door bursts open, and I yell, “In here!” My voice cracks with the strain and worry.
“Name, sir?”
“I’m Toby, this is my wife Joey.” He checks her body and puts a pump mask to her mouth. “What happened?”
“We got into an argument a few weeks ago while at my brother’s. His wife said Joey started cutting again, and it took me all this time to find her.”
They nod.
“She’s been drinking. There’s a bottle in the other room.” The words just keep rushing out of me, bleeding like my wife does.
They lift her, taking her outside the room.
“The police will want to get a statement.”
“Can’t they do that at the hospital? I’m not leaving her side,” I nearly bite his head off. I’m not leaving her like this.
He nods, and I follow.
The entire way to Hollow Ridge General, I sob and wait for her eyes to open.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Present
Joey
My eyes feel heavy, and the smell of antiseptic sends me into a spin of nausea. It isn’t until I hear beeping that I realize what I’ve done.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Joey?” Toby’s timid voice speaks, and my eyes entirely open. He’s kneeling, holding my palm and looking as if he died.