The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,30
I dropped my purse on the floor behind me. She had a small overnight bag, which could’ve been from changing out of her scrubs after work last night, but also could’ve been because of the evening plans that I’d just interrupted.
“Were you with Trevor?” I asked as she slid into the driver’s seat.
“No, no. I didn’t stay out much longer. The music, blah. And Bennett turned all sulky after talking to his ex. What a trip. No offense, I know he’s your good friend, but he can be kind of a mood killer.” She drummed her hands on the wheel. “Did he call you? Last night, I mean.”
I took out my phone, scrolled through, but there had been nothing other than Jonah’s call. Everyone had gone home to a typical night, it seemed. “Nope.”
“He was not too pleased that you left without saying goodbye. I told him you weren’t feeling well, but . . .” She shrugged. “When he left, I figured he was calling you.” She looked my way, and I shook my head. “I texted him when I found out you were in the hospital,” Elyse continued, “but it didn’t seem to go through. I called and left a message, but it went straight to voicemail. I think his phone was off.” A cut of her eyes in my direction. “Sorry, I didn’t know how else to reach him.”
“No, that’s all right, he’s like that.” The rule follower, silencing his cell for all sleeping hours when he wasn’t on call. Often turned off, for good measure, so people wouldn’t expect a response.
“I’m sorry,” Elyse said, taking a deep breath. “I’m talking too much because I’m nervous. Because I don’t know what to say. Are you okay? You’re obviously not okay. I mean, other than your knee. There was a detective. And a body. I wouldn’t be okay.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said, hoping it was true.
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. “And he was just . . . there?”
Looking at her, I thought briefly that she might still be drunk. How many hours had it been since she’d left the bar? She’d had at least two drinks before I went home, and she hadn’t seemed in a rush to leave. “Just lying there.”
“And you found him? In the middle of the night?”
The darkness and the ringing and then the shadow—“I heard a phone.” Trying the story on for size. Getting used to the way it felt, until I could see it myself, what had happened during the gap of my memories.
“I heard it was a box cutter,” she said, voice lowered.
The air kicked in through the vents, a sudden icy blast. I cracked my knuckles on the side of my leg. Hadn’t thought much about the logistics of what had caused the blood.
“Sorry, I’m doing it again,” she said. “Talking too much.”
“No, it’s okay.” I cleared my throat. “Where’d you hear that?”
“The nurses. Some of us have a group chat. You know, for . . .
keeping the next shift in the loop on things.”
She had stopped herself before she confessed to violating HIPAA privacy rules, for saying that the nurses might share patient information or stories via texts. A fine line, with or without names. The gray area between legality and morality.
But I knew my name must’ve been mentioned. That someone told her a cop had brought me in to the hospital. I guessed it wasn’t technically confidential, as long as my medical history wasn’t shared.
And now, on another floor, a man had likely been brought to the morgue. Another examination happening elsewhere, trying to unspool the story from a different angle.
I knew Central Valley didn’t get a lot of murders. I’d checked what I was getting into before I moved here. Not as quiet as Widow Hills, but the deaths we documented and tallied were mostly illness, or accidental, or expected. It was worse in the winter, with the icy, winding roads and the mountainous terrain. Even then, there weren’t typically police investigations surrounding them.
“What else did you hear?” I asked as she turned onto my street. “Do you know who it is?”
She eased her foot off the gas, seeing the police cars still parked on the side of the road. “No. Not that anyone’s saying. Just that. A man brought to the morgue. And that you were there, too.” Her eyes cut to the side again. “This is scary, Liv.”