A Blind Eye

by Julie Daines

  “Dad,” I said.

  After a few minutes, he said, “It’s late; you should get to bed. You look terrible.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I stood up, climbing the stairs with my last reserves of energy. I flung the covers back and slid into bed, too tired to take any medication.

  What would things be like tomorrow? It had been a long day, and we were both exhausted. Eight years couldn’t be fixed in five minutes. I knew that. I figured we had some awkward months ahead of us, followed by more only slightly less awkward years. But that was okay. It would be worth it.

  * * *

  I woke up with the sun streaming through my window and my body on fire. And someone knocking softly on my door.

  “Yeah?”

  The door opened, revealing Scarlett. She looked like she’d just woken up too. Her pink hair formed a fuzzy tangle around her face, and she was wearing sweat pants and a Barry Manilow T-shirt that could have come only from Gloria.

  “Can I come in?” She brandished her mischievous grin. “I don’t want to muck up your boundaries.”

  Nice to know Scarlett was okay. “You can come in.”

  She sat on the edge of my bed. “I guess you’re the hero now.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I had managed to save her, but I would have felt a lot better if Jenny was still alive.

  Scarlett lifted the hand of my nonbullet-hole arm and placed it on the side of her face. “Thanks,” she said, her voice suddenly serious.

  I pulled her close and kissed her. “Well, someone has to look out for you foreigners.”

  I tried to scoot up in the bed so I could sit, but the muscles in my arm didn’t cooperate. A new selection of water bottles had appeared on my nightstand. I opened one and drank it, along with a small handful of Ibuprofen.

  “I thought you’d come in and say good night,” she said.

  “I meant to, but I barely made it up the stairs. One extra step would’ve been my last.” I should’ve gone in, but I was a mess and not quite ready to talk about it yet. “What happened?” I asked. “What happened after you left here with Simon?”

  She shuddered. “Christian, I had no idea he was married to her. I can’t believe I was so thick. I thought he was a nice guy. Just goes to show, you can’t trust anyone.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I know.” She touched my face, her fingers soft and light, impossible to resist.

  I managed to push myself up so I was sitting this time, leaning back against the headboard. She told me how Simon took her straight to the mortuary. Turned her over to Dr. Wyden without any hesitation. They had planned to do the surgery that night, but Katie said the nanocamera wasn’t ready. She stalled but could put them off only for one day.

  “I heard you trashed her clinic,” Scarlett said, laughing.

  “I don’t know if that’s what I’d say exactly. But I went to her office to find out why Connor and Gary kept following me even after you were gone. They tried to kill me at school that morning. At the clinic, the receptionist—Jenny, remember her?”

  “The appointment girl?”

  “Right. She helped me search Dr. Wyden’s office. That’s when I found a photograph of Dr. Wyden, Simon, and their daughter. I knew then you’d been taken. They found me at the clinic. Connor shot Jenny.”

  “He killed her?”

  “Yes. For no reason. Another casualty of Wyden’s freak-tastic plans.”

  “It’s because she saw them. Simon told me if I hadn’t had my dream, none of this would’ve happened.” She was quiet for a moment then said, “It’s over now. And Dr. Wyden is locked up. No one else will get hurt. Everything worked out fine.”

  “Fine? A girl is dead; Katie is in the hospital; I have a bullet hole through my arm and probably a concussion. Or two.”

  She wanted to feel the damage from Connor’s gun. I pulled up my sleeve and found the bandage soaked. I hadn’t changed it last night, and all the exertion had kept the blood flowing.

  I undid the tape, pulling it off gingerly, then unwound the long strip of gauze, exposing a mass of dried blood and gunk. Was I supposed to have it checked today? I didn’t have the energy to leave the house for anything.

  I still wore the sweats I’d put on last night, and I stank of sweat, blood, and the chemicals from the embalming room.

  “Scarlett, I need a shower.” But right after I said it, I remembered I couldn’t take a shower; the hole in my arm had to stay dry. “Well, a bath.”

  “Okay,” She kissed my cheek and left for her own room.

  I went into my bathroom and took off my shirt in front of the mirror. A bruise the size of a frying pan covered half my ribs. I had another bruise on my cheek, and when I turned around, a welt like someone had hit me with a baseball bat crossed my back. I filled the tub with hot water and lowered myself in, careful to keep the bullet wound dry.

  I soaked for a long time with my eyes closed. Then I dressed and tried to bandage my arm. I couldn’t do it one-handed. I thought of asking Scarlett for help, but I heard her shower running. I stepped into the hall and called over the railing, “Gloria?”

  My dad’s face appeared in the hall. “She went to the store.”

  He looked like a different man from the one last night. Tall again, and straight. He really had been worried. Panicked that his son would die. Why wasn’t he at work? It was Tuesday morning. He worked seven days a week. He watched me with a knot in his brow, wondering, like me, if anything had really changed between us.

  If he was trying this hard, I could too. “Uh, I need some help here, with my arm.” I held up the roll of cotton gauze.

  He tried to keep his face straight, but I caught the relief that smoothed his forehead. He jogged up the stairs, two at a time. “Sure.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed, and he knelt on the floor in front of me. He wound the bandage around more times than probably necessary before securing it with tape. “How are you feeling today?” His words came out stiff and forced. This was going to be a bumpy road.

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath before making my next attempt at bridging the gap. “I’m sorry for the things I said at your office yesterday.” I wished I could tell him I didn’t really mean them, but at the time, I totally did. “I just . . . I mean, I was . . . The thing is . . .”

  “Stop.” He kept his focus on the bandaging, even though he’d already finished. “Don’t worry about it. You were right, and I deserved every word. It’s my fault.”

  I never expected to hear words like that come from him—words that didn’t choke and strangle but instead settled on me softly, peacefully. I think at last he understood all the torture he’d put me through. But if he wanted a son, and I wanted a father, I couldn’t think like that anymore. I had to let it go.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s just move on.”

  His whole body relaxed. “Yes. If you’ll give me the chance.”

  I think I’d been around Scarlett too long. I couldn’t resist the urge to get him back for his wisecracks the other night when he’d nearly shot me with his gun. I carefully edged my voice with humor and said, “Will you toss out all your bottles of wine?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I already did.”

  I stared at him, stunned. I had no comeback for that.

  A thin smile crossed his face, and he patted my knee, like a stranger pats the head of a wandering dog. I’d take it.

  He left as Scarlett came in.

  “What was that about?” Her pink hair fell around her face, still wet and shiny from the shower, and her diamond nose stud glittered in the morning sun streaming through the window. She sat beside me, resting her head on my shoulder.

  “Scarlett, you called it. I think the second half is going to be okay.”

  About the Author

  Julie Daines was born in Concord, Massachusetts, and was raised in Utah. She spent eighteen months living in London, where she studied and fell in love with English literature, sticky toffee p
udding, and the mysterious guy who ran the kebab store around the corner.

  She loves reading, writing, and watching movies—anything that transports her to another world. She picks Captain Wentworth over Mr. Darcy, firmly believes in second breakfast, and never leaves home without her verveine.

  To learn more about Julie Daines or to contact her, visit her website at www.juliedaines.com.