Chapter Forty-Nine
Forty-Nine
“Two liters of blood? You never did like to do anything by halves, did you, Bev?”
The hospital room is stark and sterile. A whir is in the air, caused by the workings of unidentifiable machines along the walls.
The space smells of ammonia, disinfectant and Margot’s woody Diorissimo perfume.
Lingering on the peripheries: the scent of hospital dinners—boiled potatoes and apple pie.
Beverley is half propped up, she realizes, several pillows stacked behind her back. Her mind is foggy. Needles are in her arm. Everything is bruised. Everything is fiery and sore. Her hair, she can feel, is matted to her forehead, her skin sweaty. Her mother would be horrified.
But they are there, the three of them. They survived it. Beverley wonders, with a beat of hope, of guilt, if Enid is in one of the neighboring rooms.
“Elsie!” Beverley calls suddenly, alarmed, the words hoarse in her throat. “Your head.”
“No real damage done.” Elsie moves a hand to the bandage. “It’s you we’re worried about. Do you want water? More pain relief? I can call the nurse.”
Beverley blinks slowly, takes a moment. Then warm tears spill over, winding their way down the sides of her nose.
“Oh, quit that,” Margot soothes. “People who catch killers don’t have time for tears—too busy saving the day.”
“How’d you get out?” Beverley asks them. “Are you both okay?”
“We’re all fine,” Elsie assures her. “Margot came back for me.” She says it proudly. “Enid’s okay, too.”
“Well, I didn’t want to miss out on all the drama,” Margot jokes, but a smile doesn’t follow. They’ve been through so much. Beverley wonders if they’ll ever be the same again.
“Is Roger…?” She almost doesn’t want to ask.
“He’s alive,” Elsie replies flatly. “We saw the ambulance take him away. The cops are in his room with him now.”
Beverley’s face crumples. “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. More tears. “I should have seen it. I didn’t see it.”
Mass killers are master manipulators. She knows that. They’re experts at hiding in plain sight. That’s exactly what Roger did.
“Are we really doing that again?” Margot sounds tired. “No one can stop these people, Bev. No wives, no sisters, brothers, cops. But we got him—in the end. We got him, Bev. He’s done.”
There’s a sudden knock at the door, and the women freeze. A young nurse stands at the doorway, a worried look on her face. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a reporter here to see you.”
“Oh Jesus,” says Margot, fixing her hair. “Here come the press.”
“It’s okay,” says Elsie softly. “Send her in.”
A woman appears at the doorway, and Beverley turns her head toward her. She has wild hair, a steeliness in her eyes and the languid posture of someone who knows her own worth.
“This is Patti,” Elsie says as the woman smiles calmly, then takes a seat, pulls a notebook from her purse.
“Ladies”—she looks among them—“you ready to tell your story?”