A crowd had gathered around something or someone lying on the ground. Voices rose in distress. Hands flew into the air, summoning help. “Move back!” a woman yelled in a sharp voice. “Give her room.”
“Is she conscious?” someone cried.
“Call an ambulance!”
“I don’t think she’s breathing.”
A big guy with a beard and tattooed arms swept his iPad through the air in an effort to clear people away from the immediate area. As they dispersed, I caught a glimpse of the person who was lying face-up on the ground, her body still as death as a river of blood streamed from her nose.
The bottom suddenly fell out of my stomach.
“Oh, my God. Margi!”
nineteen
“S’cuse me,” I shouted as I rocketed past visitors who were ambling through a bathroom that adjoined the yellow bedroom. “Sorry!” I apologized as I scrambled around a half-dozen people wandering through a smaller bedroom. I hit the main staircase at a run, clattered down the stairs, blew by the docent who was directing me to a room that glowed yellow with blinding phosphorescent light, and charged out the front door. I descended the stairs two at a time and ran toward the circle of tourists who were videotaping the event with their phones and camcorders as it played out.
“Lemme through,” I cried as I bulldozed straight through them.
“You know her?” asked the man with the iPad and beard.
I fell to my knees beside her and clutched her hand. “She’s my friend.” Her eyes were half open and glassy with shock. “Margi? You’re going to be all right. Has anyone called an ambulance?”
“Oui,” said an older man who was capturing us on tape.
She had to be all right. Krystal hadn’t been lucky enough to survive her overdose, but Victor was okay. If Margi could be treated in time, she’d be okay, too. I knew she’d be okay. But why her? What grievous thing had Margi Swanson done that would drive someone to kill her?
“Stay with me,” I begged her as I hauled a packet of tissues out of my shoulder bag.
“Emily?” she asked in a weak voice.
“I’m here, Margi. Right beside you.” I began dabbing blood from her face.
“My pocketbook,” she rasped.
“It’s right here.” Lying beside the iPhone that had apparently slipped from her hand and cracked in a dozen places. “Do you want something out of it?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Hand … sanitizer.”
“If this is your friend, you must know her name and address, hunh?” asked the bearded man.
I glanced up at him. “Why do you want her address?”
“So I’ll know where to send the bill for my iPad.” He held the device up, allowing me to see the fracture that splintered the center, and the crack that radiated out from corner to corner. He stabbed his finger at Margi. “She broke it, and I want it replaced. Walked right into it face-first while she was texting. BAM! If she doesn’t start watching where she’s going, the next time she runs into something, I guarantee she’ll end up with more than a bloody nose.”
“She walked into you?” Laughter burst from my throat like bubbles from uncorked champagne. “Her nose is bleeding because … she slammed her face into your iPad? Oh, my God!” I grabbed both of Margi’s hands and squeezed, giggling like a Valley girl. “That’s the most wonderful news I’ve ever heard!”