The Wishing Game

Chapter 1

ONE

M y lids are sluggish as I try to pry my eyes open. In the distance, I hear a beeping sound that seems to become louder and louder.

"Doctor, she's coming around," someone calls out—a voice I vaguely recognize.

"Please wait outside," someone else speaks.

A bright light probes at my eyes before an elderly woman's face appears before me.

"Mrs. Archibald, can you hear me?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my throat feels as if it's on fire. A ragged sound makes it past my lips as I mumble a barely intelligible request for water. A nurse seems to understand me, and she brings me a glass, then helps me take a few sips.

God, what happened? Every sip is as if something sharp is raking down my throat.

"You might feel some discomfort since we had to intubate you," the doctor explains.

My eyes flash at her before I frown.

"W-what happened?" I croak.

"You were in a car accident," she tells me in a matter-of-fact voice. "You broke your arm and bruised your ribs from the impact. But there was an explosion and you were hit in the back of your head by flying debris. We've had to perform a craniotomy to reduce swelling."

Looking down at myself, I note the cast around my left arm, and raising my good hand to my head, I feel the bandage that surrounds my entire head. My torso is tender, and discomfort accompanies every breath.

The events of the accident are fuzzy, but I remember the truck that almost hit us. Nikki veered to the side to avoid it, but it had been too late.

"My husband. I want to see my husband."

The doctor gives me a strained look, and panic swells in my chest.

"My husband, Doctor. Where is my husband?" I repeat more forcefully. My chest contracts with every word spoken, the pain intensifying.

"You've been out for a week, Mrs. Archibald," she continues, swallowing hard. "Your condition is still precarious and?—"

"My husband," I grit out. "Where is Nikki?"

She blinks at me before she clears her throat.

"Your friend is here to see you," she says briskly before excusing herself.

I stare wide-eyed after her, shocked at her dismissive attitude. Yet that can only mean one thing... My lips tremble as all sorts of scenarios build inside my mind, but I quickly squash down those thoughts.

Nikki is fine. I nod to myself.

The moment the doctor is out, Noelle breezes through the open door, running toward me.

"Oh, Lulu! You're awake," she exclaims as she barely stops herself from giving me a hug. Her arms extend forward before she draws them back.

Her joy is genuine, although there's a wariness behind her eyes, something in the way her eyes glisten with a mix of tears of happiness and sorrow.

I gulp down against the wave of anguish that threatens to batter my very being.

"Noelle, where is Nikki?" I ask her directly.

She falters, taking a step back. Her body language screams distress.

A hollowness develops in my stomach.

"Lulu, you just woke up..." she stammers, fighting to keep the smile on her face.

"Where's my husband?" I repeat, my voice breaking as the meaning of their prevarication sinks in. "Please tell me where my Nikki is," I add in a pained whisper.

She bites her lip and, coming closer, she takes my hand in hers, squeezing tightly.

A flash appears in my mind and I see Nikki on the ground, covered in blood. His hand is on my hand, giving me a comforting squeeze right before he...

"He died at the scene," Noelle finally says. "There was nothing the doctors could do for him."

"No." I shake my head. "That's not possible. My husband can't be dead."

"I'm sorry, Lulu. I'm so, so sorry," she whispers, tears swimming in her eyes.

"It's not true. It can't be true. I need to see him," I mumble incoherently.

He's not dead. How can he be dead? No, I refuse to believe that.

Shaking off her hold, I rip the IV from my arm and swing my legs over the bed.

My eyes close just as I inhale deeply, a sharp pain pricking my side.

Everything hurts.

"Lulu, you can't..."

"I need to see him. I won't believe it until I see him. My Nikki is not dead."

He would never leave me. That day we met again, five years ago, he promised me he would never leave me—that I would be his just as he would be mine.

Forever.

He wouldn't break his word to me.

"Lulu, I know it must be hard to believe and I realize you must be feeling as if the entire world is about to end—I would feel the same—but you need to take care of yourself first," Noelle pleads with me as she tries to grab my arm.

I slap it aside as I put one foot in front of the other, almost as if learning to walk again. The pain is just as intense on the second step—maybe even more. But despite this excruciating physical agony I find myself in, I cannot bring myself to stop until I see him with my own eyes.

He's not dead. He can't be dead.

Just the other day he promised he would leave his mark on my skin—sear his words of love into my flesh so I'd never be ashamed of my scars again. Just the other day we planned a future—one far, far away from all the chaos of the city. Far from vengeance and greed. A future in which we'd be free.

Just the two of us.

Free...

"Lulu!"

I reach the door of the salon, wrench it open, and come face to face with the doctor and a couple of nurses.

"You can't be out of bed," the doctor says, instructing the nurses to take me back.

I shake my head, evading them. I'm not in control of my limbs at this point—my desperation is. "I need to see my husband," I mumble as I wobble down the corridor.

One of the nurses catches my right arm, trying to hold me back without hurting me.

"You need to go back, Mrs. Archibald. You'll hurt yourself."

"No," I spit out, and with a force I didn't know I was capable of, I dislodge her hand from my arm, continuing forward. "Just tell me where my husband is. I need to see my husband."

"He's dead, Lulu... You have to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you," Noelle calls from behind.

"No. I won't believe that until I see him. Take me to my husband, please."

"Lulu..."

"Mrs. Archibald, I'm afraid that won't be possible," the other nurse intervenes just as I spot from the corner of my eye a couple of security guards heading my way. "You've been asleep for a week. Someone had to decide what to do with his body, and his family decided they would cremate him."

"What?" I stop, pivoting to look at her. "What family? I am his family." I point to myself. Panic rises in my chest, and my vision starts to swim.

"Since you could not make that decision, the next of kin was consulted. I can find out who it was for you..."

"Who was it?" I turn to Noelle, walking around her in a circle, a harsh clamor laying siege over my mind.

She gives me an apologetic look. She knows enough of Nikki's family to realize why this should have never happened.

"His aunt. Ophelia."

I swallow hard, pressing my lips together.

"Why? Why would she cremate him?"

"She said it was what he would have wanted, and no one objected to it."

I close my eyes for a moment, stepping back until my back hits the wall. Even that small impact makes me reel in pain.

"He can't be dead," I whisper, anguish lacing my voice.

"I'm so sorry, Luce..."

I don't answer. I can no longer answer. My body moves at some point, either on its own or being led by others.

I'm put to bed.

There's a dull prick of a needle as an IV is inserted in my arm.

I stare at the ceiling. Numb.

No tears come out of my eyes. None.

I simply stare at the ceiling, counting all the little imperfections until my brain shuts off.

For the next few days, everything is a haze as I come in and out of consciousness. At some point, I realize they've decided to sedate me because I was a danger to myself .

I don't talk.

I don't speak to anyone.

I just stare at the ceiling, waiting for the next IV to be plugged in so I can burrow away into nothingness—so I can stop myself from feeling .

Yet even the sedative they give me cannot take that away.

Locked behind a wall of fog, I cannot form any conscious thought. But the pain is there. Oh, it's always there.

Yet I don't cry. Somehow, at one moment or another, I'd stopped being able to cry.

I think of Nikki—my sweet husband—and no tears come.

There's only this emptiness that becomes larger and larger with each passing moment—a void that threatens to swallow me whole. Oh, but I'd let it. In fact, I'm welcoming it.

Please swallow me. Please take me away from the meaninglessness of it all.

It doesn't.

It's simply there, torturing me, beckoning me, tricking me.

And I can do nothing but let it on the off chance that tomorrow might come and I won't open my eyes again—that I'll meet him again.

But that never happens.

It's at the end of the week when the nurses take the bandage off my head that I'm informed the police want to speak with me and take my statement.

For the first time since learning that the love of my life is no longer in this world, I feel a light jolt of awareness. He might be dead, but the person responsible for all of this is still out there, and according to Noelle, he's still alive.

"Officer," I nod at two men who enter my room.

"Mrs. Archibald. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us. I understand you're going to make a full recovery?"

"That is correct," I answer blankly. "I'd like to know what you're going to charge the man who crashed into us with," I say, cutting straight to the chase.

Both men frown.

"We're not going to charge him with anything."

"What do you mean?" My eyes widen as I shuffle into a sitting position.

"Ma'am, they didn't tell you?"

"What?" I frown.

"Your husband was the one who caused the accident."

"What?" I burst out in surprise. "No, that's not true. The truck was coming toward us and my husband tried to veer to the side to avoid it, but it still crashed into us."

"Ma'am." The policeman clears his throat. "Your husband's toxicological report came back positive for opioids. We know he was on drugs at the time of the accident. You don't have to hide it from us."

I stare at them, utterly befuddled.

"No." I shake my head. "Absolutely not. My husband only took anxiety medication. Nothing else. I'm sure of it. He's never done drugs in his life. Even when he got shot in the leg, he never took any opioids for the pain."

The two policemen share a look.

"We've checked with his therapist, and his toxicological report didn't match with the pills he was prescribed," one of them says. "He must have obtained the drugs illegally and disguised them as anxiety medication."

My face falls at what they're implying. My mouth hangs open in shock as I cannot find the words to refute their accusation—how could I when it's simply outrageous? Nikki would have never bought illegal drugs, nor would he have lied to me.

The other looks contrite as he adds, "I'm sorry to be the one to break it to you, Mrs. Archibald, but your husband had a very high percentage of opioids in his blood. If he was already taking other medication, he could have easily hidden the opioids from you."

The memory of Nikki taking that medicine right before the accident flashes in my head, but I dismiss it.

"No. You're wrong. He would have never done that, Officer. He would have never taken a risk with my life," I tell them staunchly.

If there's anything that I'm sure of, it's that Nikki would have never done anything that could result in me being harmed. To hear that he had taken drugs while driving? With me by his side? Preposterous.

"The lab results don't lie, Mrs. Archibald. I know it's hard to believe, but it's the truth."

"So that's it? You're just going to make him the one guilty for the accident? Just like that? The other driver crashed into us ."

"We've checked everything thoroughly, ma'am, and there's nothing to confirm your story. If anything, it's the reverse. The other truck has marks that show your RV crashed into it."

"You might be misremembering because of your head injury," the other one continues. "But back to the purpose of our visit. We wanted to let you know that the injured party will not press charges and has decided to settle with your family lawyer for the damages."

I stare at them, flabbergasted.

They say a few more things, but I tune them out.

"We wish you a speedy recovery, Mrs. Archibald," the words barely register in my brain. I don't reply, staring at their retreating figures until the door snaps shut.

Am I remembering it wrong?

That can't be, can it?

Did my injury change my perception of the events?

But no, I can remember everything clearly up to the moment of collision. I know what I saw and what I felt. The truck hit us , and we were both catapulted out of the cockpit.

My brows furrow as I try to focus on the events of that day. Had Nikki seemed weird? Had he behaved out of the ordinary?

Well, he'd certainly surprised me with our outing, but could that be the effect of heavy drugs?

I bite my lip in uncertainty, but I quickly shake myself.

He's my Nikki. I know him.

Coincidentally, not long after the policemen are gone, the new phone Noelle had gotten for me rings—it's our lawyer.

"Hello, Mr. Daniels. I understand you've settled with the victim ?" I add sarcastically.

"Always straight to the point, Mrs. Archibald. Yes, indeed. We've given him enough to cover all the damages, both material and emotional."

"Is that so..."

"But that is not what I wanted to discuss with you," he continues blithely. "I've been told you will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow."

"That is correct," I speak slowly, alarm bells going off in my brain.

"I will have a car waiting for you to take you to the penthouse. The entire family will be present for the reading of the will."

"What?" I ask in a clipped tone. "I don't want any of those people in my home."

"Then perhaps you'd be amenable to coming to our office?"

"Why would they be needed there anyway? Nikki assured me they weren't included in the will."

"I cannot say, I'm afraid. This is the protocol."

"I'll meet you at the office," I add dryly.

"Three o'clock," he says in a sing-song voice, and before I utter any profanities, I hang up.

Oh, Nikki, what the hell happened?

I'm slow to react due to my brain injury and the sedatives that have kept me in a state of drowsiness. My mind is starting to awaken and ask all sorts of questions.

Nothing makes sense. Absolutely nothing.

But practical as I always am, I force myself not to dwell on my husband's death—if I did, I doubt I'd ever be able to get out of this goddamn bed—and focus on the matter at hand. The suspicious accident. Nikki's supposed drug use. My alleged faulty memory...

Could any of this be possible?

Yes, I admit that it could happen. Logically, things make sense. But I don't trust logic as much as I trust Nikki, and because of that, I'm certain he would never take opioids. On top of that, with his family's presence at the reading of the will, my senses are telling me something is definitely off.

How many times had they tried to kill him before? How many times had they tried to get their hands on his money, only to fail?

Experience tells me they are the most likely culprit. Why else would they cremate him so quickly? Why else would they make it all seem his fault?

"They won't get away with this, Nikki," I whisper, the chasm inside my heart deepening even more. "I won't let them."

I won't rest until I get justice for you. And then... Then... I smile, closing my eyes and thinking back to our happy times.

Then we'll be happy again—together.