Chapter 2 #2
If she stabbed me in the face, it’d hurt less than her rejection.
This wing of the hospital feels a bit restless, almost buzzing with energy. It’s as if the building has taken a deep breath and is holding onto it for just a moment longer. Or perhaps that sense of tension is coming from me as I mentally keep track of the room numbers.
201, 202, 203…
As I walk by each staff member, I offer the customary smile and nod, but when I finally reach my destination, I let out a trembling sigh because it all feels very real now. Next to the plaque that reads 205, I notice a name written in bold, black marker on a small rectangular whiteboard.
Knightly, Alice.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Just a couple of months ago, Alice was in this very hospital, one floor up, at her father’s side.
Sadly, Luther Knightly passed away after a tough battle with cancer.
Those who knew his wife, Katherine, could tell that the witch was relieved when he finally succumbed to cancer.
It wasn’t out of pity for his suffering—let’s be honest, that wouldn’t paint a kind picture of her.
While Luther was fighting for his life, Katherine was busy living as if she were already a widow.
It’s a fact that on the night he passed away, she was in another man’s arms…
…while Luther’s daughter had been in mine.
His death wrecked Alice, but what ripped her to shreds was the guilt she felt afterward. For not being with him when he died. For being with me instead.
And that’s why we’re here, and it’s as if I’ve lived through a whirlwind of emotions in the last few hours.
I woke up to a dozen missed calls and a flurry of frantic texts from Else McQueen.
Call me as soon as you get this
It’s important please call me.
You need to please call me.
Maddox call me.
My first thought? Someone had taken out Roman.
Through McQueen Enterprises, he controls a significant portion of Wonderland and influences every corrupt politician in Grimm County.
His control over the county makes him believe he’s invincible, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if Else’s news had been that some brave fucker had murdered him.
But the news wasn’t about Roman.
No, the news was about Alice.
My Malice.
How did I miss the signs? Was I not paying attention or too close to the fire to see the flames? I knew she was struggling after Luther’s death, but I mistakenly believed that she would recover and regain her footing. Instead, she tumbled deeper into despair.
Katherine found Alice overdosed on the bedroom floor, lying in a puddle of vomit. Alice still clutched the empty bottle of her mom’s oxycodone. If Alice hadn’t thrown up some of those pills, or if her mother had arrived just a few minutes later…
Doubling over, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and try to swallow down the rising nausea.
I know from this moment on everything’s changed and it fucking sucks.
I want to reset time, rewind it and go back to the night when we were together in the maze.
But I can’t, and once the nausea passes and I can breathe easy again, I straighten up and swim through the wave of fear that crashes over me.
If Alice can come back from the edge, then I can handle whatever’s waiting for me on the other side of this door.
Even though my head feels fuzzy from adrenaline, I carefully inch inside the dim and eerily quiet room.
Heavy white curtains are pulled closed, hiding the gloomy day outside, but still, I see her.
My sweet Malice, asleep on the bed in the center of the room.
I’m alarmed at how pale she is—too pale.
Ashen. Her icy-blonde hair is a messy halo against the white pillowcase, and shadows are a stain beneath her eyes.
There’s an IV hooked up to her arm, and all I want to do is pull it out, scoop her up, and take her away from this sterile place.
Run fast and far enough that sadness can’t catch her.
Alice Knightly deserves to be drenched in color, not shut away in this dismal room.
“Shhh. She just fell back to sleep,” the nurse says gently, her voice fading into the background.
A glance at my guest tag has her brows knitted in a deep frown.
She places her book on the square table beside the bed, stands up, and approaches me, her white Crocs making a soft sound against the bright tile floor.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t be here. Ms. Knightly has specifically requested that you not visit,” she says gently.
“I specifically don’t give a shit,” I whisper back.
Her boldness is both surprising and amusing as she grips my biceps, attempting to pull me toward the door. “Leave, or I’ll call security to remove you.”
I flick my gaze from her hand back to her face. “How about this instead? You remove your hand, or I’ll remove it for you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Take it however you want, but I suggest you do the smart thing and unwrap those little digits from my arm.” I reach into my back pocket, pull out the worn leather wallet, and peel off a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
“Go grab yourself a cup of coffee,” I offer, my tone layered with hints of menace and persuasion.
Without any hesitation, I give her another hundred.
“Better yet, indulge yourself in a nice, long lunch, my treat.”
Relinquishing her grip and with a defiant spark in her brown eyes, she rejects my offer with an unwavering determination.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she declares, punctuating her words with an exaggerated uplift of her chin.
Yet, beneath her bravado, I hear the undercurrent of fear in her voice—a healthy and proper fear everyone has of me.
Leaning low, I close the distance until my lips almost brush her ear.
“I’m trying to behave today,” I murmur, my voice low and laced with malice.
“But believe me, it’s not easy. Now, I’m asking for ten minutes.
Ten.” I gently pressed the money into her hand, emphasizing my plea with a soft, “Please.”
After all, Alice had a knack for calling me out whenever I edged toward being a bully instead of acting like a gentleman.
Nurse Lory—the laminated badge dangling from the lanyard around her neck shows that she was a bottle blonde before she was brunette—closes her fingers around the cash.
She shoves the crumpled bills into the deep pocket of her scrubs, the fabric rustling softly.
“Fine. Ten minutes,” she declares, her voice firm as she holds up both hands, fingers fanned wide as if counting down an impending storm, a countdown that brings both relief and dread. “Not one second longer.”
“Ten,” I reply, my voice resolute, as I nod in agreement.
With a deliberate motion, I pull out my pocket watch, its gold surface warm from the tension of my grasp.
I note the minutes, although the analog wall clock above the television ticks steadily, serving as a relentless reminder of our fleeting time. “Much appreciated.”
“Don’t even think about agitating her. Got it?” She warns me, her tone low, a thread of urgency weaving through her words.
I make a solemn gesture, tracing a cross over my heart. “Promise.”
She mouths ‘ten minutes’ one last time as she leaves, her glare lingering like a protective guardian against dark forces unseen.
Dark forces that emanate from me. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Alice and me alone in the silence.
My heart pounds in a steady beat of both dread and hope within my chest.
This dismal room is so saturated with the acrid scent of disinfectant that it’s disorienting.
Every muscle in my body feels coiled too tightly, like wound springs ready to snap.
My gaze is locked on Alice, her fragile form lying far too still beneath the white sheet.
The spectral reminder of mortality grips my throat like a vise, with the essence of her frailty a haunting phantom.
I shuffle toward the bed, my palms damp and heart racing as I extend my hand to smooth Alice’s tangled hair away from her face. But just as quickly, I pull back, the urge to awaken her clashing violently with the desperate need to see her captivating blue eyes.
Again, the question swirls in my mind in a loud riot of confusion and despair.
Why, why, why?
Why did Alice shut down and shut me out?
Why did she wall herself away from me, from everyone?
I want to understand; truly, I do, but beneath that desire simmers a well of anger, and I clench my fist in frustration, itching to punch something.
To punish someone. To purge this overpowering sense of helplessness that gnaws at my insides, because how dare she do this?
To herself. To her friends.
To me.
Get it together. This isn’t about me. It’s about Alice. I’m here for her. She’s the only thing that matters. She’s all that ever mattered to me.
I stow the anger deep within, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of Alice’s chest, on the incessant beeping of the machine beside the bed.
Else told me that, along with a shot of Narcan, the paramedics had performed CPR on her.
No doubt, she bears the marks of their desperate attempts beneath that gray hospital gown.
Her ribs and throat likely ache fiercely, too. But through it all, one truth lingers.
She’s alive.