Cross My Heart

Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

The message is typed, the paper the size of a cell phone. I read it a few times, but it might as well be calculus for all the sense it makes. Even my name looks like an equation, and as I stare at it, a chill skitters over my skin. My wound pulses beneath the towel.

“You were talking to that cop outside Sweet Bean yesterday,” Edith says. “And then this note was under my door today. So I thought the police must know Morgan had been seeing a ‘Rosie’ and they questioned you , but you—” She shakes the note. “You figured out it was me.”

I think of the fear I saw stamped onto her face when she caught me with Jackson in the parking lot. I assumed it meant she was scared of me, scared I was a suspect in Morgan’s murder, but now I know: she was afraid of becoming one herself.

“I didn’t write that note,” I tell her. “I didn’t know you were the other Rosie until I saw that hair dye in your bag.”

She frowns, gaze darting between the bottle in one hand and the note in the other. “Then who did write it?”

Goose bumps lift the hair on my neck. “I don’t know.”

Edith’s lips move in silence as she reads the message again. “Maybe…” she starts—then stiffens. Her eyes sweep the room, pausing on the puddles of blood, the knife beneath the table. “Maybe whoever attacked you is after us both. Someone lured me here tonight, right as you were hurt. Maybe they wanted you to think I was guilty. Of hurting you and Morgan. Do you—oh god, do you think it was Morgan’s killer who did this?”

Yes. Or at least I did . I never had time to articulate the thought, but in those ragged seconds of scrambling for safety, for air, I must have assumed the person in black was Other Rosie. But now that I’m looking at Other Rosie, who’s adamant she had nothing to do with the attack—on me or Morgan—I don’t know who else that leaves.

Edith squints at the note. “Morgan and I never met up with anyone else. Never even took a picture together that he could show someone. So how did this person know there was a connection between me and Morgan in the first place? And how did they connect you to me and Morgan? How did they know you’d spoken to police? How—” She drops her head, lets out a defeated breath. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either,” I admit, queasy from her questions. “So let’s call the cops and they can sort this out.”

“But—” Edith’s eyes swell with panic. “You said they have my hair! That it was in Morgan’s hand ! I’ll look insane—I used your name, dyed my hair like yours. They’ll think I killed him!”

I don’t doubt the possibility of that. But I see no other way to untangle the knots of this night or to keep myself safe. Because whether or not Edith had anything to do with it, someone broke into my home and assaulted me.

I try to stand, but the movement leaves me dizzy. I don’t even make it to my knees before a sharp, shrill sound forces me to pause.

It’s sirens. They’re piercing the room. Lights, red and white, carve the dark outside.

I jerk my head to Edith, find her frozen in those lights, and we hold each other’s gaze as car doors open and close, as footsteps pound up the stairs.

“Ms. Lachlan?” a woman calls, and it’s only now that I notice my door is ajar. Two officers rush inside—followed by someone I recognize.

“Rosie,” Jackson says, darting between his colleagues to crouch beside me. He scans the towel on my arm, the stains on the floor. “What happened?”

“I— Someone—” I try to answer, overwhelmed by the swarm of police and the EMTs who have slipped in behind them. One of the officers wields a flashlight, slashing it across the walls. I blink against the beam, then focus on Jackson. “How did you know something happened?”

A crease bisects his brows. “From your text to 911.”

“My what?” Over Jackson’s shoulder, Edith and I share a bewildered glance. “I didn’t text 911. I was about to call, but—” Jackson stands to make room for the paramedics. One pauses to read my MedicAlert bracelet before unpeeling the towel from my arm; the other assesses the tear in my sleeve where the knife grazed my shoulder. They both reach into bags at their sides, extracting wipes and gauze, but I return my attention to Jackson. “Are you sure it wasn’t my parents who texted?”

I look at the door again, as if I’ll find Mom and Dad surging through it. But if they’d seen something—the shadow of my intruder, a glimpse of our struggle through a window—they would have never waited for the cops to get here before coming up themselves. Not to mention: A text? I didn’t even know you could text 911, so I doubt they would either.

“The texter identified herself as Rosie Lachlan,” the male officer says.

Edith’s inhale is sharp. “Just like on the note.”

“What note?” Jackson asks, studying Edith. His eyes narrow as he catalogs the details: smears of blood on her face, red fingerprints on the paper in her hand, and cradled loosely in one palm—the bottle of pink hair dye.

“It wasn’t her,” I spit out, the certainty of it smacking me in the face. Because even though her timing tonight was eerily perfect, even though I have no idea who wrote the note that led her to my door, I do know one thing: neither of us contacted 911.

Which means Edith might be right. Someone’s targeting us both.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter that I believe her. The cops arrest her anyway.

“What the hell happened? Are you okay? Is it your heart? What’s that bandage for?”

I’ve been awake the entire night—receiving treatment at the ER, giving Jackson my statement, having precautionary EKGs and CT scans—so when Nina barrels through the privacy curtain of my room, shrieking questions at me, I’m slow to process them.

“What are you doing here?” I ask instead. “Did my parents call you?” I glance at the clock: 6:42 a.m. Mom would never call someone before eight, unless it’s life or death.

“Uh, do you really not remember I work here?” Nina says. “Oh god, was it a head injury?”

“No, I just didn’t see you anywhere, I assumed you were home.”

“Why is your voice like that? Tell me what happened. Unless— Is it hard to talk?”

I shake my head. I still sound husky, but it only hurts to swallow, not speak. I give the monitor beside my bed a reflexive glance to check my vitals, and as it beeps its steady beat, I tell Nina about the attack. Her eyes snap wide at first. Then instinct overrides emotion and she shifts into nurse mode. She places gentle, probing fingers on my injuries as I describe them. She even peeks beneath the gauze on my arm to check her colleagues’ work in stitching me up. When she’s satisfied, she sits on the side of my bed, shaking her head in shock. I’ve just gotten to the part where I found the hair dye in Edith’s bag.

I relay the story for Nina the same way I did during my statement—insisting on Edith’s innocence and excluding one important detail: the buttoned wedding dress.

“I accidentally left my door unlocked the night before,” I say, because it’s true. “And when I woke up, I had a weird feeling like someone had been in my apartment while I slept.” Also true. “So I don’t think last night is the first time they were there.”

Nina follows up exactly as Jackson did: “Why didn’t you call the police about that?”

“I didn’t have any proof.”

She scowls before launching into another question. “Was your door unlocked last night too? I can’t imagine you’d overlook that two nights in a row, but… how did they get in?”

“My door was definitely locked, I checked like twelve times. I checked the whole apartment, too, and I was completely alone—until suddenly I wasn’t. But the cops said there was no sign of a forced entry, so I have no idea what happened.”

When Jackson mentioned that phrase— forced entry —my mind sprang to Daphne. The dark figure on her porch. The hand punching through glass to reach the dead bolt inside. I stopped hearing him for a second, stuck on how uncanny it is that Daphne and I have both lived through an intruder, but then my chest tightened at that thought, as if protecting her heart. Because even though I’m shaken by what happened, even though I shiver just thinking of where my intruder might be now, I didn’t lose anyone in the attack. If anything, it brought someone back to me. My best friend, who only two nights ago wanted a break, is by my side again, stroking my hand.

“No forced entry,” Nina mumbles to herself, “but the door was locked.” Her brows knit tighter. “I don’t like this.”

“Really? That’s weird, because I love it.”

She laughs, softly at first, then harder than the quip deserves—but it’s a necessary release of tension. When she stops, her face is more relaxed, a smile idling there, and I’m surprised by her change in demeanor. In a matter of seconds, she’s gone from concerned to calm. Almost carefree.

She looks around the room. “Wait, you’ve been here all alone? Where are your parents?”

“You just missed them. They went to let Bumper out and my mom wanted to”—I pause, no easy way to say it—“clean up the blood in my apartment before I go home. They’ll be back soon. They’re my ride.”

“God, this must have been so hard for them,” Nina says, “seeing you like that. Watching you get rushed here again.” She rubs my knuckles, worry returning to her eyes. “Hard for you, too, I’m sure.”

“They took it… surprisingly well, actually. I mean, they were upset, and they want me to stay in their house for now, but…” My attention drifts past Nina to where my parents sat for much of the night.

“But what?”

I don’t know how to describe it. Just like Nina, there was something newly unburdened about their expressions. They were horrified by what had happened to me—while they were sleeping next door, no less—but they were a little lighthearted too. They joked about the nurse’s shoes, which were “inappropriately vomit-colored,” according to Dad, but the last time we were in the ER together, when my own vomit had been clumped with blood, their demeanor was solely somber, humor itself the inappropriate thing.

And maybe that’s the difference. Our previous ER trip was the beginning of what could have been the end, the moment we knew I was sick. But this time, all I need are stitches and bandages. No transplant lists. No indefinite hospital stays.

“I think they’re just glad it wasn’t my heart,” I tell Nina, checking the monitor again.

She nods in agreement, her eyes landing there, too. We sit in silence that feels like a vigil.

Nina breaks it first: “So do the cops have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.” I swallow what feels like sticks instead of saliva. “Jackson said—”

“Who’s Jackson?”

“The detective. Didn’t you say he talked to you?” I know she did. She mentioned it in the same text where she asked me for a break.

“Yeah, but I’m not on a first-name basis with him.”

“He’s actually— Remember Winnie Dean? He’s her older brother. Isn’t that a weird connection?”

Nina’s eyes twitch for a second, almost a squint, but she doesn’t respond.

“He told me they’ll fingerprint the knife, but the person had gloves on, so I’m not holding my breath. He also said they’re going to talk to all my neighbors, see if anyone saw anything, if there are cameras they can pull footage from.”

“Well, you saw the person. So let’s start simple: Were they built like a man or a woman?”

Jackson asked the same question, of course. Once again, I try to concentrate on the memory—hands clawing for the knife, the crook of an arm crushing my neck—before rebounding fear slams shut the scene.

“It could have been a tallish woman. Or it could have been a man on the shorter side. Honestly, it happened so fast I barely got a chance to look at them. The only distinguishing feature I noticed was this scuff on their boot that looked like half a heart. And I think— I think they’re the same person who killed Morgan.”

Nina straightens. “Did the police say that?”

“No, but whoever attacked me has to be the one who lured Edith to my apartment. And probably the one who texted 911. I think they wanted Edith to be found at the scene so the cops would have to investigate her. Then they’d figure out Edith’s connection to Morgan and—”

“Wait, that text. Could the cops tell whose phone it came from?”

“Jackson said it was unregistered. He promised they’ll keep looking into it, but— I’m worried he doesn’t see it like I do: that Morgan’s killer is still out there. He seemed pretty satisfied, finding Edith with that bottle of hair dye, like he was catching her red-handed.”

“Pink-handed,” Nina offers.

“And I get that it looks bad, the strands of Edith’s hair in Morgan’s hand. But someone else must have been at his house that night— after Edith left, and before I got there. And whoever it was, they’re setting Edith up to take the fall.”

“But wouldn’t there be an easier way to do that?” Nina asks. “The note, the 911 text, the timing of the attack—it’s all so complicated. Couldn’t they have just dropped an anonymous tip that the cops should look into Edith? Why would they work so hard to hurt you in the process?” She glares at my bandage.

“They must have known—somehow—about me and Morgan, just like they knew about Edith and Morgan. So maybe they’re—” I grapple for the right words. “Punishing us? For dating him?”

“You weren’t dating him,” Nina says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really! And I think you’re being awfully generous to this woman, who—let me remind you—dyed her hair like yours and started using your name. That’s crazy! And Edith could have easily written that note herself. She could’ve even texted 911 one second before she came through your door. She probably figured it was only a matter of time before the cops tied her to Morgan, and she wanted to make herself look innocent by orchestrating what seems like a setup and— God, I don’t know.”

Nina rubs her forehead at the effort to implicate Edith. I understand the mental knots she’s tying. It’s not exactly normal, meeting a man and giving him some other woman’s name. But I also recognize the impulse behind Edith’s choice, which she made while reeling from loss. It does something to you, watching the person you love, the person who said they love you, leave you behind. It makes you suspicious of yourself, makes you question everything you did, everything you are, searching for the flaws that caused the pain—and you’ll find them everywhere. In memories. In mirrors. So what’s a new name, other than a chance to reinvent yourself? To wipe the glass clean in the hopes of seeing a different reflection.

This is something that Nina, who’s never been dumped, just can’t understand. But Edith and I know: breakups are more than heartache. They derail the life you thought you had—which only throws everything else off track. Your plans for the future. Your routines. Your sense of worth. Even once the dust settles, you’re left with disorienting fog. Internal chaos. And what’s a person to do with that? Maybe they dye their hair. Or drive to their ex’s house. Maybe they pretend to be someone else. Or call the same number, over and over, because the unanswered ring is better than silence. And maybe sometimes what looks like crazy is just an attempt at taking back control.

“The point is,” Nina continues, “I wouldn’t trust a thing Edith says. That girl gives me the creeps. Look: goose bumps.”

As she pulls up her sleeve to show me, I register the outfit she’s wearing. Jeans and a thin sweater—not her hospital scrubs.

“Why are you in regular clothes? Didn’t you say you were working?”

Nina yanks her sleeve back down. “No. I didn’t say that.”

“Then how did you know I was here?”

“I checked my phone. We share locations, remember?”

Sure—to track each other’s ETA when we’re meeting up, or for safety reasons, in case I’m ever out somewhere and don’t come home. But how did Nina know to check it this morning?

“You said you wanted a break,” I remind her, because I’m not sure why she’d check it, either, not when she’d asked me for space.

“Yeah, well, that’s because that detective requested a hair sample from me, based off things you told him. He questioned me for like an hour, obsessed with where I was the night Morgan died.”

My eyes widen at that, but she gives me no chance to respond.

“You roped me into this whole thing—the murder of a guy I never even met—and I just… I needed a minute. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to make sure you were okay and not, like, dead in a ditch somewhere. Or”—she gestures to the room around us—“having a problem with your heart.”

Part of me is comforted by her answer, the fact that she cared about me even when she wanted distance. But another part is still confused.

“Why were you looking for my location at the crack of dawn?”

“I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got on my phone and checked.” Nina shrugs. “It’s just habit lately.”

My frown deepens. “It’s habit lately ,” I repeat, emphasizing her word choice. “Since when?”

She purses her lips, toggling her head from side to side, as if counting up the days—or whether she’ll tell me the truth. Then she heaves out a sigh that sounds like surrender. “Since I picked you up from the police station.”

I take a moment, sifting through that answer. “So you mean you’ve been”—I swallow through the pain in my throat—“making sure I was safe?”

Nina nods, but it’s too slow to be convincing. As her eyes stray from mine, slippery with guilt, something clunks inside me. I look at my monitor, expecting to see a break in the beat of my heart.

“Or do you mean,” I ask, dragging my gaze back to Nina, “that you’ve been checking up on me since then because that’s when you learned I was a suspect?”

She understands what I’m really asking. I know it from the way she throws up her hands: a defensive gesture. “I was just worried, okay? I know you’d never intentionally hurt someone, but—”

“But what? You thought I accidentally killed Morgan?”

“I didn’t know what to think! You went to Morgan’s house that night without him explicitly inviting you over. That’s not a normal thing to do, Rosie. And then you went inside with the cat, so I thought: maybe Morgan freaked out at seeing a stranger in his house and fought with you and you grabbed a knife in self-defense. I don’t know! I was ninety percent sure you were innocent, but—” She stops, leaving a silence so loud it muffles the beeping on the monitor.

“But there was still that ten percent,” I finish for her, voice even raspier than before. Pain slashes through my arms, as if the knife is still cutting me.

“Look,” Nina says, “it’s all sorted now, right? The hair in Morgan’s hand was Edith’s, she really did use your name, and you obviously didn’t attack yourself last night. So: case closed. You didn’t kill Morgan.”

It’s there on her face again—that lightness, the release of a weight she’s been carrying. The same expression my parents snuck at each other from their chairs. And it finally clicks for me what I’ve been seeing: relief—not just that I’m okay, but also that I’m not. Because only now, now that I’m a victim, do the people I love most believe I’m innocent.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Nina says to my silence. “I don’t mean to upset you. But let’s not pretend you don’t have a history of acting before you think. You once drove with a bleeding hand to your ex’s house.”

“Because he wasn’t answering his phone! And I couldn’t deal with the silence after—”

“The silence was his answer! Which you would have realized if you would just see things as they really are for once, instead of how you want them to be. I mean, god—instead of talking to Brad about your relationship when you noticed him being distant, you bought a wedding dress. A wedding dress! And then when he texted you out of the blue to tell you he missed you, you convinced yourself it meant you were getting back together. But it was a booty call, Rosie. Not a declaration of love. Because if he really loved you, he would have respected you enough not to sleep with you one night and ghost you the next.”

Nina stops to catch her breath, her words having burst out like a sneeze she’d been trying to hold back, and even though I’ve barely spoken, my breath feels ragged too.

She’s never criticized me this explicitly, never spoken about my wedding dress like it’s a symptom of some sickness I didn’t know I’d contracted. And worst of all, she’s never questioned the one thing I held on to—that whatever else happened with me and Brad, he had loved me.

The last few minutes are too much to process, a one-two punch of Nina’s doubt and disapproval. I touch the bandage on my arm, then rub my neck, but I can’t pinpoint the pain I’m feeling. It pumps through my body like blood.

“You have your Rosie-colored glasses,” she continues, softer, slower. “And sometimes they get you into trouble. You miss what’s right in front of you.”

Nina gives me a gentle smile, expecting a response, I think. But I can only stare at her, the person right in front of me, wondering if I’ve been seeing her clearly or with a pretty tint.

“Okay, hon,” a voice says, coming through the privacy curtain. It’s the nurse who took over at six a.m., who gave me crackers and water before leaving to get my discharge papers. “Let me just go over this with you real quick and then—oh. Nina. Are you working right now?”

“Nope, not stealing your patient or anything.” Nina stands from the bed, turning her smile toward her colleague. “Rosie’s a friend of mine.” She grabs my hand and squeezes, but my muscles won’t return the gesture. “My best friend, actually.”

“Oh! Look out for her then, okay?” the nurse says. “She’s had a rough time.”

“I definitely will,” Nina says.

As the nurse unhooks me from the monitor, she and Nina chat over my head. I don’t hear them, though. I’m still absorbing Nina’s critique.

They get you into trouble. That one sentence is doing double duty: an explanation for the ten percent of Nina that thought I could have killed Morgan, and a warning that I’m wrong to believe in Edith. That I’m just not seeing her right.

But right now, I’m seeing her in handcuffs at the police station, bearing the brunt of Jackson’s suspicion. I’m seeing her struggle to explain it: why she used a different name with Morgan, why she dyed her hair each time she saw him. I’m seeing Jackson write her off as some crazy woman, as if he’s never been driven by hope or fear, as if his heart never tugged him down paths that others might question, as if our hearts are led by logic at all.

The nurse reads aloud my discharge instructions. I nod along but focus on other words instead: You miss what’s right in front of you .

I’ve definitely missed something. Someone knows more about me and Edith than they should; someone knew how to set that trap for her, how to get inside my locked apartment. But first and foremost: they knew I had a connection to Morgan.

It might be someone I know myself, someone I assumed was harmless—until these bandages on my skin, the cuffs on Edith’s wrists, proved they weren’t. And even though it hurt when Nina questioned and criticized me, she’s given me a path to follow the second I’m released.

Because they’re still out there, the person responsible—for Morgan’s murder, my attack, Edith’s arrest. And if I’m going to find them, I need to stop seeing what I want. I need to go back, retrace my steps, and see what—or, in this case, who—is really there.