7. Fran
— ? —
Fran
I wake in pieces.
First there’s sound, steady beeping, the hum of machinery, voices somewhere distant and muffled.
Then smell: antiseptic, recycled air, something floral that doesn’t quite mask the hospital underneath.
My throat burns with every breath, raw and scraped, and my hands throb with a pain I don’t remember earning.
I keep my eyes closed. I’m not ready for whatever comes next.
The door opens. Heels click against linoleum, a sound I’d know anywhere now, a sound that makes my whole body go rigid beneath the thin hospital blanket.
“Poor thing.” Sloane’s voice, soft and concerned, the perfect performance of a worried friend. “She looks so fragile lying there. I do hope she pulls through.”
I don’t move. Don’t react. My heart is pounding, I can hear it on the monitor, the beeping speeding up, but I force my breathing to stay slow, stay even, stay like I’m still unconscious.
“The doctors say she’s stable now.” Another voice, female, unfamiliar, a nurse, maybe. “She was lucky. Another few minutes in that smoke…”
“Thank goodness.” Sloane’s heels click closer. I can smell her perfume now, that expensive cloying scent that makes me want to gag. “I feel so terrible about what happened. If I’d known she was inside…”
The lie is so smooth, so effortless, that something cold settles in my stomach. She’s standing here, in my hospital room, performing concern for the murder she tried to commit.
“You did everything you could,” the nurse says. “Calling for help like that. You probably saved her life.”
“I just wish I could have done more.” Sloane’s voice cracks, perfectly timed. “She’s family to me, really. Logan’s wife. We’ve all been so close.”
I want to scream. I want to sit up and tell this nurse exactly what Sloane did, how she locked me in that room, how she set the fire, how she stood on the lawn playing victim while I choked on smoke twenty feet above her head.
But I don’t have proof. It would be my word against hers, and she’s been playing this game a lot longer than I have.
“I should check on the other patients,” the nurse says. “But if you want to sit with her for a few minutes…”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
The door opens and closes. The clicking stops beside my bed.
“Such a shame about the fire.” Sloane’s voice is soft, almost tender, the words clearly meant for herself as much as anyone. “Such a tragedy that she couldn’t get out in time.” A pause, the creak of her settling into the chair beside my bed. “Well. Almost couldn’t.”
I keep my eyes closed. Keep my breathing steady. Give her nothing.
She crosses her legs, apparently satisfied with her audience of one unconscious woman. “All that smoke damage to the lungs,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “The doctors say you’ll recover, but what do they know? Bodies are so fragile. So unpredictable.”
Silence. The beeping of my heart monitor, slightly too fast.
“You were supposed to die, you know.” She says it casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. “That was the plan. Quick, clean, tragic accident. Everyone would have been devastated, and Logan would have needed someone to comfort him, and I would have been right there to pick up the pieces.”
My fingers twitch against the sheets. I force them still.
“But you just had to survive, didn’t you?
Had to be difficult, right to the end. Had to crawl out like a cockroach that won’t stay stepped on.
” A sigh, theatrical and heavy. “It doesn’t matter, though.
You’ll leave now. You have to. After everything that’s happened, no one would blame you for walking away. And once you’re gone…”
She leans closer. I can feel her breath on my cheek, smell that perfume mixing with the antiseptic air.
“Once you’re gone, everything goes back to the way it should have been.
Logan and me. The families united. He’ll finally see what’s been right in front of him all along, and we’ll have the future we were always meant to have.
” A pause. “You were never part of this story, Fran. You were just a delay. Just a temporary little obstacle.” Her voice drops lower.
“So take my advice and stay gone. Because next time, I won’t underestimate you. ”
The door opens again, and Sloane pulls back smoothly, her voice shifting in an instant.
“Oh, doctor. I was just keeping her company. She looks so peaceful.”
“Visiting hours are limited for patients in her condition.” A woman’s voice, brisk and professional. “I’ll need to ask you to step outside while I examine her.”
“Of course. Of course.” The clicking of heels toward the door. “Tell her I stopped by, won’t you? Tell her I hope she feels better soon.”
The door closes. Footsteps approach my bed, heavier this time, rubber soles on linoleum.
“Mrs. Davis?” The doctor’s voice is gentle. “I’m Dr. Okafor. Can you open your eyes for me?”
I do. The light is harsh and fluorescent, making me wince, but I force myself to focus on the woman standing beside my bed, middle-aged, kind-eyed, with a clipboard in her hands and concern written across her face.
“There you are.” She offers a small smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a campfire.” My voice comes out as a rasp, barely recognizable. “What happened? How long have I been here?”
“You were brought in last night. Smoke inhalation, primarily - your lungs took some damage, but nothing that won’t heal with time.
Some cuts on your hands from broken glass.
” She’s checking monitors as she talks, her movements efficient and practiced.
“You were very lucky, Mrs. Davis. Another few minutes in that room…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“My husband.” The word feels strange in my mouth now, after everything. “Is he okay? He came back for me - he was in the fire too-”
“Mr. Davis is being treated in a room just across the hall.” Dr. Okafor’s expression softens. “I can’t share specifics about his condition, but I can tell you he’s alive and stable. His injuries were more significant than yours, but he’s expected to recover.”
Alive and stable. Logan is alive. He ran back into that fire for me, and he survived.
I close my eyes, letting that sink in. He saved my life.
Whatever else happened between us, the showcase, the dressing table, the nineteen months of feeling invisible.
He ran into a burning building when he realized I was trapped.
He didn’t have to. He could have believed Sloane, stayed safe on the lawn, let me choke on smoke while he comforted his childhood friend.
But he didn’t. He came for me.
“There’s something else I need to discuss with you.” Dr. Okafor’s voice has changed, become more careful. “When you were brought in, we ran standard blood panels. Routine for any patient in your condition.”
My eyes open. Something in her tone makes my stomach clench.
“Mrs. Davis, are you aware that you’re pregnant?”
The world stops.
“What?”
“Based on the hormone levels in your bloodwork, combined with your menstrual history from your intake forms, you appear to be approximately six weeks along.” Dr. Okafor is watching me closely, gauging my reaction.
“I’d like to do a follow-up ultrasound to confirm the dating and check on the baby’s development, but the initial indicators are positive. ”
“Six weeks.” The number lands heavily. Six weeks pregnant. I didn’t know. I had no idea.
“I understand this might come as a surprise,” Dr. Okafor continues gently. “Given the circumstances - the smoke inhalation, the stress - I want to monitor you carefully. We’ll do an ultrasound this afternoon, check on the baby’s heartbeat and development, and then we can discuss next steps.”
“Is the baby…” I can’t finish the question. Can’t even form the words.
“Right now, I can’t make any guarantees. But the hormone levels are strong, which is encouraging. The ultrasound will tell us more.” She sets down her clipboard. “Mrs. Davis, do you have questions? About the pregnancy, or anything else?”
A thousand questions. A million questions. But only one that matters right now.
“The woman who was just here. Sloane.” I keep my voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. “Can you make sure she doesn’t come back? I don’t want her in my room.”
Dr. Okafor’s expression flickers, surprise, maybe, or understanding. “Of course. I’ll make a note in your chart. No visitors except medical staff unless you specifically approve them.”
“Thank you.”
She leaves, and I’m alone with the beeping monitors and the harsh lights and the impossible truth settling into my bones.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant with Logan’s baby, and someone just tried to kill me, and my marriage is a disaster, and I have no idea what to do.
My hand goes to my stomach, flat, still, no sign yet of the life growing inside me, and I try to think.
***
The ultrasound happens that afternoon.
Dr. Okafor was right, it’s still very early, barely a flutter on the screen, but there it is: a heartbeat. Tiny and rapid and unmistakably real.
“About six weeks, just as I estimated,” the technician says, pointing at the monitor. “Everything looks good so far. The heartbeat is strong.”
I stare at the screen, at that tiny pulsing dot that represents a future I never planned for, and something breaks open in my chest.
“I’ll want to see you for regular follow-ups,” Dr. Okafor says from the doorway. “Weekly at first, given the circumstances. We’ll monitor the baby’s development closely, make sure everything progresses normally.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.” Her voice is kind but practical. “For now, try to rest. Your body’s been through significant trauma - smoke inhalation is hard on any system, but especially during early pregnancy. The best thing you can do for yourself and the baby is take it easy.”
Take it easy. Rest. As if I could rest with Sloane’s voice still echoing in my ears, her perfume still lingering in the air, her casual admission that she’d wanted me dead playing on repeat in my mind.