“Adeline,” the EMT grunted. “If you calm down we can talk about Jackson.”
I stopped struggling. “Okay.” I sniffled, becoming aware that tears were streaming down my face, and I wiped my runny nose. “Where are they taking him?”
“Into surgery,” the man answered. I twisted to look at him. He was tall with dark skin and black hair. I couldn’t pronounce the long name embroidered onto blue scrubs. His dark eyes were gentle. “You can go once he’s out.”
“Is he going to be okay?” My hand trembled as I pushed my hair behind my ear.
The doctor’s face remained still. “We will know once he’s out of surgery. Now you need to let us take care of you.”
I nodded, agreeing. Then I was whisked into one of those small rooms and hooked up to several machines. I watched my rapid heart rate on the monitor that hung above the bed while the nurses and doctors worked on me.
I had a mild concussion and was dehydrated. I needed four stitches to the gash on my right shin, my left wrist was sprained, and my face and arms were scratched and bruised to all hell.
But I was okay. Technically, I didn’t even need to be admitted. I was treated in the ER, and only time would heal the concussion and sprain. Medically, I was sound enough to be discharged. Mentally … that was a whole other story. My brain hadn’t allowed me to process anything. It was just too much. The words ‘Jackson is in surgery’ replayed over and over in my mind like a broken record.
I looked at the floor. Light reflected off the freshly waxed tile. I couldn’t handle thinking about Jackson lying on a table under bright lights. I stared at the floor until my vision blurred and my eyes watered.
Dressed in only a hospital gown, I shivered. I rubbed my hands on my arms. The air was cold in the emergency room of Genesis Medical Center. I pulled my knees to my chest, watching the clock. Thirty-four minutes had gone by, and I hadn’t heard anything about Jackson.
“Adeline?” the nurse called before she pulled back the curtain just enough to get into the room. “Hi, I’m Elyse.” She smiled warmly. Her thick dark hair was pulled into a ponytail that swung when she walked. “The police would like to talk to you, but I told them they only could if it was all right with you.”
“It’s okay,” I said automatically.
She moved over to the bed. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this now.”#p#分页标题#e#
“No, it’s okay. I just want to get it over with.” I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I want this all over with.”
“Okay.” She gave me another sympathetic smile and left. A few seconds later, a police officer and two detectives pulled back the curtain and came into the room. They had me tell them in great detail everything that happened to me over the last year. They didn’t seem to believe me when I told them Jackson was the father of my baby. Almost as soon as I was done, two FBI agents came in and had me repeat everything again.
After they left, a tall and thin older man came into the room. He was carrying a sketchbook and a pencil. “Hello, Adeline,” he said quietly.
Everyone seemed afraid to talk to me, like what I had been through made me too fragile to handle real life. I didn’t want to waste the energy telling them they were wrong, that all the horrible shit I had been through only made me more of a fighter than I ever had been.
“I’m Ben.” He pulled a rolling stool out from under the counter and sat, flipping open his notebook. “Do you think you can tell me what the guys that took you look like?”
I shifted my feet under the thin, white sheet. “Yeah, I can.”
He nodded. “Good. You only have to describe the younger one. A few of the guys at the station are familiar with the other guy’s … uh, business ventures. They’ve seen him before. Ready to start?”
I nodded and closed my eyes, bringing the terrifying image of Zane’s face to mind. I described his looks the best I could and hoped that the picture resembled Zane at least a little.
“Like this?” Ben asked when we were done. He held up the picture.
“His eyebrows are a little thicker,” I said. I licked my dry lips and looked at the clock.
Ben turned the picture around and added to the sketch.
“This?”
“Yes,” I said, looking at the sketch of Zane. It was hauntingly lifelike. I felt as if the black and white eyes seared into me. I looked at the drawn-on burn and got a flash of pressing the curling iron to Zane’s cheek. I could still smell the burning flesh.
Ben nodded and closed the notebook. At a loss for words, he only offered me a tight smile and a slight nod before he left, pulling back the curtain to exit the small room in the ER. The manhunt would begin, and the pencil drawing of Zane’s face would be broadcast over the news.