by Amber West
The
Ruth Valley
Missing
By Amber West
Text copyright © 2012 Amber West
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and other incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to or identification with the name, character, or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
I never made a habit of waking up to the feel of unfamiliar sheets, but as I rubbed my legs against the rough fabric, I was both disconcerted and comforted.
I glanced around the ER, waiting for the blur of sleep to subside, hoping for a clue as to why or how I ended up here. The curtain next to my bed was only partially pulled, mocking any expectation of privacy in the chaos of a busy emergency room. I caught sight of another patient, his leg mangled into something that was sure to put me off sausages for the next six months, and quickly turned back towards the curtain. The sudden movement made my head throb and my stomach ache. I brought my hand to my face and felt the heat of a swollen cheek.
What happened?
I closed my eyes, trying to recount the events of the evening. I remembered showing up at the gallery opening Dylan insisted we attend. I had a hazy recollection of staring at a painting of disembodied heads while I silently longed for my comfy old couch, remote control, and worn out sweatpants.
I closed my eyes tighter, as if that might magically summon the missing pieces of the night leading me to this hospital bed. Instead, I heard steps approach my bed and opened my eyes.
“Miss Jameson?”
“Quinn, actually.” The nurse looked down at the chart, then back up at me. “My last name is Quinn, first name is Jameson. It’s okay, people mix them up all the time. What am I doing here?”
“Well,” she paused as she looked down at a clipboard, “you were brought in unconscious. The person who brought you in said you passed out and hit a wall. We’re waiting on your blood work right now. Do you have any idea what happened?”
Closing my eyes again, I took a deep breath, concentrating. I remembered angrily sipping champagne, listening to some pretentious guy deconstruct the deeply political and social subtext made by a mound of bottle caps placed on a platform, while waiting for Dylan to return from schmoozing with his hipster friends.
“I was at a gallery opening. I remember having a glass of champagne, but I can’t seem to remember much past that.”
The nurse nodded, jotting some notes down on the chart she held.
“Alright. I’ll return in a few then.”
As she turned to walk away, I called after her. “Wait!”
The nurse stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Can you see if Dr. Finelli is on this evening?”
The nurse stiffened. “Dr. Finelli? That’s not really necessary—”
“Not for treatment or anything. He’s a friend.”
Her shoulders fell as she relaxed. “I’ll have him paged.”
I leaned my head back against the hospital bed, hoping Finelli was around. I needed a friend right now, and one who might be able to rush my tests would be especially helpful. The incessant beeping of the machines and oppressively bright fluorescent lights only heightened my awareness of the pain in my head. I shook my head and closed my eyes, wondering what kind of sadist designed this emergency room.
“Quinn!”
“Hey, Finelli.” I said, propping myself up on one elbow. “Thought I’d come visit.”
“There are easier ways to get me to see you, you know.”
Finelli’s tone was friendly, but his eyes looked tired. He grabbed my chart and rolled up next to the bed on a stool.
“Yeah, I know. But you know me. Grand entrances and all that.”
“Of course.” He patted my arm in the fatherly way he often did when we talked. “So, you don’t know how you ended up here, eh?”
I shook my head.
“That’s not like you.” He looked at the chart again. “You were drinking?”
“A glass of champagne, Doc. Seriously, you know me. I’m not exactly a party girl.”
Finelli stood and placed my chart on the end of the bed. “I’ll check on your tests, see if I can’t find out more. Do you want me to call someone? That boyfriend of yours?”
I started to say yes, then thought better of it. “No. Just see what you can find out for me. Oh, and do you think you can get someone to give me something for my headache?”
Finelli saluted and smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
As I watched him walk away, I felt slightly calmer. I’d met Dr. Finelli when I started volunteering at the hospital four years ago. He had a reputation for being a bit gruff, but in reality he was sweet and loving; he just didn’t like to put up with any kind of nonsense. Very quickly, he became a sort of surrogate father for me here in the city. Knowing he was chasing down my tests - knowing someone was looking out for me - put me at relative ease.
While I waited for his return, I felt around my skirt pocket, hoping the intake nurse missed my phone. As my finger hit the cool edge I smiled, pleased at my preference for clothes with pockets rather than hauling a purse around.
I pulled out my phone and looked at random photos of art I’d uploaded the night before, complete with snarky comments. There were pictures of people I vaguely knew through Dylan, and a guy I didn’t recognize from previous events I’d attended. As I scrolled through the photos, I noticed he was in an awful lot of them. I wondered if he was the guy I walked out with.
I checked my message history next. There was one unread message from Dylan.
You could of at least found me before you left. talk tmrw.
Could have, not of, I thought to myself.
And apparently, I was unconscious, so no, I couldn't have found you.
I opened up the notepad in my phone and tried to tap out anything I could remember as I waited for Dr. Finelli’s return. I tapped my index finger against the phone, waiting for something to come, but found I couldn’t call anything more to mind than what was left behind in the photos.
An hour passed before I saw the familiar streak of silver hair headed in my direction. “Okay, Quinn. Your tests showed a level of Benzodiazepine in your system. You aren’t on any medications I don’t know about, right?”
I shook my head.
“Is it possible someone may have slipped something in that glass of champagne you drank?”
I wanted to say there was no way. I was usually so careful when I went out, paranoid by some standards. But I was at a private event among Dylan’s friends, so I wasn’t thinking about danger when I grabbed a glass of champagne.
Did I grab it or did someone hand it me?
“Quinn?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“That would explain why you passed out. The amount in your system probably wouldn’t have had such a strong effect on the average person, but the combination of the alcohol and your history of medication sensitivity brought you down quickly.”
I ran my hand through my hair and sighed. Finelli quickly added, “Your sensitivity came in handy. It kept you from being able to go wherever that guy was taking you.”
“But it also is why I can’t remember what happened, isn’t it?”
“It’s likely a factor.”
“So what now?”
“Well, the drugs leave your system pretty quickly, and as for your face, that’s nothing an ice pack and some ibuprofen can’t handle.” Finelli stopped to look at his watch. “My shift ends in another hour. If you want to relax here for a bit, I’ll sign off on your chart and take you home.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. “That would be great. Thanks.”
He scribbled a few things on my chart, replaced it, then squeezed my hand. “Everything is going to be fine, Quinn.”
Yes, I thought. I just need to get home to my sweatpants and comfy couch and it will all be fine.
Chapter 2
I rolled over on the couch, trying to ignore the banging on my apartment door. Whoever it was, they weren’t showing any signs of leaving, so I dragged myself to my feet and stood next to the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Dylan, Jameson. Come on, open up.”
I fumbled around with the two deadbolts and chain before finally turning the door handle. Dylan stepped inside, walking past me towards the kitchen area of my tiny studio apartment. He stood with the refrigerator door open, staring at the lack of contents as he spoke.
“You should really learn to answer your phone. I’ve been calling all morning. I know it’s Saturday, but really, most people answer their phones after 10.”
I squinted, trying to see the clock. It was almost noon. I turned my attention to Dylan who was pouring himself some orange juice. He turned towards me as he was about to take a sip then stopped.
“Geez, what is going on with your face? You look terrible.”
I looked at the mirror on the wall and could see the swelling on my cheek had progressed to bruising.
“I fell last night.”
“I guess that’s why you never wear heels.”
If anyone else made the same comment, I would have at least smiled. But Dylan’s words were a veiled insult. He hated that I never put much stock in fashion. I owned five pairs of shoes: running shoes, plain black flats, flip flops, winter boots, and a pair of shiny black stilettos. The stilettos were a gift from him.
I bit my lip before responding. “I was doing fine in your stilettos. Until some friend of yours at that gallery dosed my drink.”
He stared into his cup. “Is there pulp in this? You know I hate pulp.”
“Are you even paying attention? I spent the night in the ER last night.”
Dylan leaned against the counter, examining his cuticles. “That was you?”
I felt a flash of anger, then calmed myself before asking further. “What do you mean?’
“I heard some girl drank too much and took a spill into a wall on the way out.” He looked up from the orange juice, frowning. “Wait, they said she was leaving with her boyfriend. What were you doing with some other guy?”
“Seriously? Maybe I wasn’t clear. I was in the hospital. Someone dosed my drink.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the pictures I had from the party. I pointed out the stranger in several photos. “Do you recognize him?”
“Yeah, he is a friend of Jensen’s. Does experimental performance art. Supposed to be a cool guy. Why do you ask?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because I am trying to figure out who at that party might be responsible for my hospital stay.”
“That’s crazy. Jensen doesn’t need to dose a girl’s drink.”
“Really? Then you have some ideas on who does?”
“I don’t think anyone there would do anything like that.”
“Well, apparently someone did.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
My face felt hot, the anger and frustration clawing its way out. “Someone at that party was trying to do something bad, Dylan. I don’t know how I can simplify this any further for you. Bad man want to do bad things to me. Is that better? Do you understand now?”
“That is unnecessary.”
“No, I think it is necessary.” I walked over to the front door and opened it. “So is this.”
I extended my arm, motioning to the open door.
“Oh, come on. You aren’t seriously blaming me for this.”
“Not at all. I am, however, blaming you for being so completely self-absorbed that you didn’t even ask me if I was okay. So, go.”
Dylan tossed his cup in the sink. He walked over to the door and paused before walking out.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I highly doubt that,” I said, as I pushed the door closed, with Dylan on the other side.
I locked one deadbolt, then the second one, slid the chain over, turned the lock in the doorknob, and returned to the couch. I stared at the milk crate, my makeshift end table, and then to the floor where my black stilettos from last night lay. I grabbed them, opened the window over the radiator and tossed them into the alley below.
Chapter 3
“You look good, James. I wouldn’t notice the bruising if I didn’t know to look.”
“Thanks.” I felt like I painted my face with a roller in an effort to cover up what was left from my tumble into a wall the week before, so hearing that it looked ok made me feel less self-conscious.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better. I’m a bit jumpy lately. Pretty sure I scared the FedEx guy the other day when I answered the door with a bat in my hand.”
Dr. Finelli laughed and handed me a coffee cup. “Should I have brought you decaf instead?”
“Not unless you plan on making friends with my bat anytime soon.”
He smiled, familiar with my affinity for caffeine and odd sense of humor.
“So,” I continued, “the police think they have the guy who dosed my drink. It was part of some ‘artistic expression experiment’ or something. He was dosing people, then posing them like dolls for his project.”
Finelli shook his head. “I’d say I’m surprised, but sadly...”
“I know. City life.” I heaved a sigh before adding, “And I broke up with Dylan.”
“Really? Hmph.”
“What does ‘hmph’ mean?” I poked his arm, nearly making him spill his tea.
“Well, frankly, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
I introduced Dylan to Finelli at a fundraiser six months ago. Dylan was unimpressed with Finelli, and Finelli kept reminding me that he had a single nephew who was a lawyer. He never said anything bad about Dylan, but he would co
nveniently ‘forget’ I was dating him whenever he mentioned eligible men he wanted me to meet.
“So did you want to meet for coffee to ask about my nephew? Because I think he has a girlfriend, but I’m sure it’s not that serious...”
This time I smiled. “No, no, I think I need a little break right now. But thanks.” I took a deep breath. “Actually, I need a big break, which is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
Finelli set his cup down on the table and leaned forward, folding his arms on the table between us.
“Yeah. I’m going to have to stop volunteering at the hospital.” I stared down at my coffee cup. “I’ve decided that I need to get out of the city. At least for a while.”
Finelli frowned and nodded. “Because of what happened at the gallery?”
“That’s part of it. I’m just, I don’t know, I guess I’m just tired. Don’t get me wrong, there is so much about being in the city I love, but I want a break. The crime, the pretentious people, the constant everything. I just want to be somewhere for a while where I can just be. Some time for me to figure out where I’m happy.” I watched Finelli listen without saying a word. “I sound silly, don’t I?”
“Not at all. Why do you think I have a house upstate? I’ve been here too long to leave my job at this point. But there isn’t a day I don’t think about heading up there and opening a private practice. Do you know where you’re going?”
I nodded. “It’s a tiny town in North Carolina. It’s funny, I read about it in a magazine. They did an article on the ‘best places to live that you don’t know about’ or something like that. But there was a side article about this homey little place. The crime rate there is like, non-existent, which is why it ended up in the article.”
“That’s a big change.”
“I know. I’m going down there in a few days to check out this house I found for rent. Everything just seemed to come together.”
Finelli nodded quietly. “What’s your father think?”
“I haven’t told him.” Finelli raised his eyebrows, sending me into defensive mode. “You know he wouldn’t understand. At least here in the city he thinks I might be pursuing artistic dreams. Hiding out in some podunk town is not something he is going to get.”
