Chapter 3 #2
“She’s awake but heavily medicated,” Dr. Everett replied. “She suffered a nasal fracture, cracked ribs, and was severely dehydrated. She’s lucky you found her when you did, or the woman would have died of dehydration.”
A shiver crawled up my spine. “Was she sexually assaulted?”
The doctor shook her head. “We found no evidence of rape or sexual assault. Your perp had a different motive in mind.”
Thank God.
I had to take the wins wherever I could find them. “Can I see her?” The question took me off guard because I realized that I felt a distinct draw to Abby. An inherent pull. “Is she well enough?”
Dr. Everett’s lips thinned. “Normally, I’d say no. But…well, she asked for you.”
I frowned, surprised by the revelation.
“I’d go easy on the questions. She’ll need more time before you interrogate her.”
“Of course.” Swallowing, I followed the doctor across the hall, my boots stomping in time with my heartbeats.
Dr. Everett pulled back the curtain and tipped her head toward the small room. “You can buzz the nurse if you need anything.”
I nodded before glancing at the woman lying beneath a mint-green bed cover. Hesitation gripped me in the entryway, and a lump lodged in the back of my throat.
She looked so broken, so defeated.
The doctor left, and my eyes locked on Abby’s willowy frame.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Abby didn’t look at me, didn’t move at all. She was resting on her back, her head tilted slightly to the right, her gaze aimed at nothing.
I cautiously approached, my thumbs hooked on my outer vest. “Hey,” I replied. She was hooked up to IVs and various machines, and I could feel the warmth radiating from her heated blanket, quelling the chill in the room. I pulled a chair over to her bedside and took a seat.
When I parted my lips to speak, words escaped me.
What could I possibly say?
How are you?
You look better.
I’m sorry.
God. What a bunch of tripe.
Abby broke through my jagged thoughts with a timid voice. “He called me ‘Little Bird.’”
My brows furrowed. “Does that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head, her gaze still fixed on the wall.
“Abby…did you recognize this man? Was there anything familiar?” I didn’t want to overwhelm her with questions, but I needed something.
Anything.
She finally looked at me with stormy blue eyes. “Nothing,” she said. “He was a stranger.”
Defeat washed over me. I would get more details later, but at least I could narrow down my suspect pool and eliminate friends and relatives.
The Withered Man seemed to have no connection to Abigail Stone.
Maybe this was a random event, after all.
Then why did he call her ‘Little Bird?’
The nickname sounded personal. I supposed the man could have been having a psychotic episode—maybe he was having delusions and this was a case of mistaken identity.
Maybe Abby reminded him of someone else.
I studied the woman in front of me. Her stringy, ash-blonde hair lay splayed out over the pillowcase.
Her hospital gown had slipped down over one shoulder, revealing a bony collarbone dappled in dark bruises.
She had lost a substantial amount of weight over the last two weeks.
She looked frail. As light as a feather.
And yet, she was strong as hell.
My eyes closed as I swallowed and tried to pinpoint an appropriate string of words. I should be better at this. “We’re going to catch him, Abby. I promise.”
I couldn’t give her much, but I could give her hope.
Abby’s hand extended, and she placed it on top of mine. I looked up and found her eyes on me, something heavy glowing in the indigo hue. My teeth ground together. A feeling swept through me at her soft touch. Something I couldn’t put a name to.
“Thank you.” Her tone was gentle, unwavering.
I watched as her gaze skimmed my face and wondered if she was searching for something, or if she was just overjoyed to see another human being. “You don’t need to thank me. I was just doing my job.”
A job.
Yeah, this was a job. Just like I’d told Daphne.
It had to be. There could be no attachment.
Not again.
Not like Maya.
Abby flinched sightly and pulled her hand away, interlocking her fingers over her stomach. “How did you find me?” She stared just over my shoulder again.
“He was at the bar that night.” I rewound the last two weeks in my mind like an old video tape.
“I remembered him. There was something strange about him. He left without paying his tab and I memorized part of his license plate. After checking surveillance from the gas station off the main drag, I saw the van head out of town when he left, then come back two hours later before heading back out of town again. I put an APB out on the van and we finally got a hit.”
It was likely more than she needed to know, but I had to stay level-headed. Focus on the logistics and facts.
“Do you think he was waiting for me? Do you think…” Her throat worked. “Do you think he chose me for a reason?”
“I was hoping that was something you could tell me.”
The truth was, I had no answers for her. Not yet. I had a physical description and a stolen van. I was hoping forensics would point us in a clearer direction.
Abby shifted under the bed covers, her tongue poking out to moisten her lips. “It was dark,” she murmured. Tears coated her eyes. “It was always so dark.”
There was a crack in her voice; a splinter. Sadness emanated off of her, cutting through me like a hot knife. It was twisting, digging, slicing into me, severing my most tender and vulnerable parts.
I reached for her hand again, my need to comfort her trumping logic. She startled at the contact. “Abby…are you okay?”
I recoiled at my own question. What a stupid thing to ask a trauma victim, only a few hours into her recovery.
What I meant to ask was:
Are you in there?
Are you still with me?
Will you somehow, someday, be okay?
Abby blinked at me before removing her palm from my grip. I watched as she raised her hand, ever so slowly, and lightly tapped her knuckles against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
I smiled.