Chapter 13 #2
With one more glance at the nearest security camera, I rotate in the direction of the blow and tighten my neck muscles to minimize whiplash.
But when Overton’s fist slams into my chin and the ground rushes up to meet me, I realize what my flash of genius neglected to take into account: the trajectory of my fall.
I swim back to consciousness an indeterminate amount of time later to find Overton gone and a gang of board members gathered in a circle, looking down at me anxiously. They’re all talking at once, and the noise makes my brain throb.
“I’m fine,” I mutter thickly. But when I attempt to sit up, my stomach revolts, and I have to turn my head to vomit. That, at least, gets them all to take a step back.
“What the hell happened?” Everett Jameson III sputters.
“Angry husband,” I mumble. “Wanted in.”
“Oh my god,” the new board member says with a gasp.
“Call the police,” another board member says.
I try to sit up again.
“Need to tell the wife.” I know her name. He said her name. “Lindsay.”
The new board member crouches next to me and rests a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back to the concrete.
“Please stay where you are,” she says in a soft voice, which I’m grateful for. “Terri saw it all happen on the security cameras and came and got us. That man hit you, then you hit the bumper of a car when you fell.”
“I… car?” That doesn’t make sense. Ray Overton wasn’t driving. Maybe I was the one driving? I try to shift upright again, but the new board member increases her pressure on my chest.
“I think you’ve got a concussion, Dr. Mohr.”
I reach for her hand, focusing on her shiny black hair and dark, concerned eyes. “Tell Lindsay.” I know this woman’s name too. It’s… Betty. Or Katherine. Maybe Maria.
“Did he threaten her?” Katherine-Betty-Maria asks.
I nod, then immediately regret it when pain flares and nausea rises. But she gets my meaning and turns to speak with one of the employees who’ve gathered outside too.
“Cameras.” I try to point at the building, but my hand makes it a few inches before it falls back on my chest. “Tell her lawyer. There’s video. That’s why I…”
I can’t remember.
“Okay, Dr. Mohr,” she says. “The staff are letting her know about the situation.”
“Good,” I mumble. “Help with her legal defense. Money.”
I point to my face, and Katherine-Betty-Maria smiles.
“Smart.” She pushes me down again. “That means you need to stay here until the police and the paramedics arrive.”
A different kind of pain spikes through my head. “No.”
This time, I successfully shake off the gentle pressure of her hand and pull myself upright, taking shallow breaths. The world swims as I slump against the car at my back.
Not my car. But the car that I hit my head on. Fuck. My jaw stings from Overton’s punch, but the pain comes roaring in when I press my fingers to the lump above my left eyebrow. They come away wet. Blood. My blood.
Jameson’s now the one talking to me. Two Jamesons.
“Have you always been twins?” I squint at the Jamesons as everyone around me exchanges nervous glances.
“Here you go, son.” The Jameson that my left eye wants to focus on hands me my glasses.
Broken.
“Are you up to talking to the police when they get here?” he asks.
“No.” The answer is immediate. I only hung around the police as long as I did last week because of the blond with kissable lips who barely reaches my shoulder. “I don’t think I can. My head…”
I don’t have to fake the weakness in my arm when I gesture vaguely at my forehead, and the stabbing lights have my eyelids slamming shut on their own.
“Of course.” Jameson’s back to being one man again, and that man is frowning. “One of us will drive you to the hospital.” He snaps his fingers at Betty-Katherine-Maria and says, “Annabelle.”
Annabelle. Right.
“No.” I shake my head and have to swallow down another wave of nausea as everything in front of me jumps and wiggles and the lights try to melt my eyeballs.
Annabelle’s worried gaze is back on me. “Dr. Mohr, your pupils—”
“You’re pretty,” I tell her, surprising myself with this accurate observation. I smile up at her loopily. “I’m Hugo. I’m fine.”
Shoving my broken glasses in my pocket, I finally pull myself upright, swaying once I’m on my feet.
“Police later,” I tell the group because I can’t give a statement right now, not with my scrambled brain fixed on finding Ray Overton.
Finding him, severing his hand at the wrist, forcing it down his throat until he chokes to death on his own fat fingers.
The roses along the east side of the duplex need more fertilizer.
When Jameson reaches for my keys, my body moves before my brain catches up, and a moment later he’s stepping back with both palms raised, looking at me like he’s never met me before.
I have no idea what he saw; all I know is, I’ve still got my keys, and the rest of the board is giving me a wide berth.
Good. Let them be afraid. It keeps them out of my way as I fling myself into my car and pull out of the lot.
I turn onto the main road as the first squad car races past, and I only have to pull over twice to vomit on the drive.
When I get home, either ten minutes or six hours later, I make it as far as the couch before I collapse.
They’re undoubtedly right about the concussion, but like hell am I putting myself in a position where anyone could extract information from me in this state. About me, Quinn. About Morticia and Rue.
Wait, no. Rue doesn’t have any secrets.
I wish I could call her. I wish she would come.
Instead, I text Quinn, tapping out… I’m not sure what. I don’t even know if I’ve hit send before I’m gone.