by Krystal Wade
She used the momentum to slam the cast-iron pan against his skull. Dad stumbled to the side but quickly recovered and dove, knocking Haley’s head into the oven.
He pulled at her shirt, thrust her head against the metal again and again and again.
Everything swirled: Dad, the kitchen, lights, her vision.
“I couldn’t help,” Haley whispered. “He still would have killed you.”
“You’re so fucking stupid, Maggie. Such a failure, a cheating whore, a control freak who can’t see how much pain you’re causing me. Why don’t you see me, Mags? See me? I need your help.” Dad fell back, letting Haley’s shirt go, giving her an opportunity to escape. “God, what am I doing?”
She crawled to her side, coughing up blood, pain tearing through with every movement. Haley pulled on the tacky linoleum and dragged her legs out from under Dad, moving closer to freedom, outside, help. The door was so close. So freaking close.
“Where do you think you’re going, Maggie? I need you, and you’re leaving me.”
Haley froze and closed her eyes. “I’m not Maggie.”
“How could you leave us? I’m supposed to ruin you now. Ruin you.” Dad opened a drawer, and metal clanged against metal. “Supposed to kill you. Have to. To save her.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Haley started at the sight of a butcher’s knife in Dad’s hands. She ignored the screaming pain and jumped to her feet, then hobbled for the door.
“Silly Maggie.” Dad punched the back of her head and knocked Haley to the hardwood. He cried hysterically, sobbing. “Running away from problems instead of facing them. Always. Always, Mags.”
Haley struggled to breathe, to stay conscious. “Please, Dad. Please, help me.”
“You ran from your mom, from the farm.” Dad pulled Haley’s arms around her back, then held them down with his knee. “You ran from me when I needed you most. You left your children. You left me with a child who looks just like you. I have to see your face every day. Every day, Mags.”
Haley screamed, louder and louder and louder, choking on her own sobs. “Help. Someone, please, help me.”
Dad dragged the tip of the knife along the inside of Haley’s arms. Fire seared down to her wrists, and blood pooled in her palms. Oh God. No. No. “Don’t kill me, Daddy. Please.”
Bucking, Haley used every ounce of strength she had to knock Dad off. He fell back and she made it to the door, palm closing around the knob, before he grabbed a handful of Haley’s hair and jerked her around to face him.
Not short enough.
“Save Joce.” Dad launched his fist against Haley’s cheek, kicked her stomach, hit, hit, hit, kicked, kicked, kicked.
Blackness filled the edge of Haley’s vision.
She was helpless, woozy… falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Unconscious.
Everything blurred. Machines beeped. Right hand stuck to something. People screamed and shouted, far away. They were all so far away.
So much pain.
Daddy killed me.
Haley blacked out, drifting into pain free oblivion.
Pain tore down the center of Haley’s skull. “Help.”
She opened her eyes and blinked several times to clear the blurriness. The hospital. A couple get well soon balloons floated beside the bed, and her favorite sweats were folded neatly on a couch beneath a window looking out into a dark night. Christine had been here. Had to have been. Haley tried to adjust her position, to lie on her side to stop the throbbing climbing her spine, but a metal cuff secured her wrist to the bed.
No energy for panic, for worry. She’d rather die.
“Ahh, Miss Tremaine,” a man said, walking in wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard. “You’re awake. I’m Doctor Reynolds.”
“Why am I handcuffed?” Haley squeaked the words out, throat dry, so dry.
Doctor Reynolds leaned his head to the side, his eyes big and round, kind, his hair the color of salt and pepper. “We’ll get to that. First”—he shined a bright ass light in Haley’s eyes—“Good. Good. Do you know what day it is? Or remember what day you were, ah, injured?”
Haley closed her eyes, body heavy and sore. She could drift back to sleep and stay there forever. No more pain.
“No, ma’am. Keep those open.”
“Why? I’m so tired.”
Doctor Reynolds stuck his thumbs on Haley’s eyelids and lifted. “You have a concussion and have been out for a while. I need some answers.”
Answers. “What else is wrong with me?”
The doctor dragged a chair from the wall and sat beside Haley’s bed. “Tell me the day you were injured.”
Day? No. It was night. It was… what happened? “I don’t know.”
“Today is Monday. Does that help?”
“No.” She squinted against the harsh fluorescent lighting raining down from above. “Can you turn off the lights? They’re really bright.”
The doctor nodded and flipped the switch. “Haley—”
Her name, the sound of Haley’s name from a man’s lips, a man. A man did this. Dad. She shuddered. “My dad.”
Doctor Reynolds nodded. “Has your father ever hit you before?”
Dad did more than hit Haley. He tried to kill her. Maybe he did. This was the future she’d always feared. Doctors knew now. They’d take Haley away, take Joce away. Would they end up in the same home?
Haley had to admit the truth. Dad put her here. Hurt her.
She nodded, and the weight of a thousand lies lifted from Haley’s shoulders, drifted off into some unseen place, only for worry over the future to swoop in and overwhelm. “But never like this. Never…”
“We found high levels of PCP in his system, along with a high blood-alcohol content. He’s lucky he didn’t die.”
He’s lucky?
“He doesn’t do drugs.” Haley felt small and idiotic under the piercing, judgmental gaze of Doctor Reynolds. Stupid girl. Dad would have killed her. Probably would’ve beat Haley bloody and put her in the hospital without the psycho intoxicating him with PCP, so far gone from drinking that one day he’d just snap. The things he said. The way he talked about Mom. “Only drinks.”
“You have a few old bruises, Haley.” The doctor glanced toward the hall. An officer sat in a chair near the door, reading a newspaper. “And now you have a concussion, a broken rib, twenty-five stitches in each arm, twelve above your left eye, and cuts, bruises, and knots pretty much everywhere. Don’t defend the man. Don’t ever, ever defend him. I’ve put a call into Social Services and your grandmother.”
Haley jerked, then winced when the cuff cut into her skin. “Gran?”
“She is your next of kin, though I couldn’t seem to reach her. Social Services will take it from here. They should be in within an hour.”
Tears tracked Haley’s cheeks. She had to get out of here. No time for this. “Why am I handcuffed?”
“You’ll need to ask him.” Doctor Reynolds pointed to the cop in the hall. “A few officers stopped in to check on you, and I guess they didn’t want you to go until they had a chance to talk. I’ll come by to release you as soon as he and your new caseworker give me the okay. Do you have any way of getting home, someone you can call in case we can’t reach your grandmother?”
“Yes.” Not that anyone would come for Haley. Just Gran, though Haley had no intention of calling her, or waiting for her to show and wind up involved in the psycho’s game. Hell, Haley had to escape before the caseworker arrived.
The doctor made his way to the door.
“Doctor Reynolds?”
He stopped and turned, pity in those caring old brown eyes. “Yes, Miss Tremaine?”
“How’d I get here?”
“By ambulance.”
The doctor and officer spoke for several minutes in the hall, Doctor Reynolds growing red in the face, waving his arms around with short, jerky movements. Haley caught a few whispered words of their conversation and got the i
mpression the doctor didn’t want the officer to come in and bother her.
Thank you.
But the officer won, saying something about a restraining order. He watched Doctor Reynolds storm down the hall, slam Haley’s chart on a counter by a bunch of startled nurses, and continue on his way. Once the commotion in the hall settled, the officer entered her small, cold room.
“Todd?” The cemetery groundskeeper with the sad gray eyes? He kept his head slightly down, not meeting Haley’s gaze.
“One of my many jobs, Haley. My name is Officer Lyttle.”
“Oh.” That would explain why he wanted to walk Haley home, or shooed her out of the cemetery when it was too late for someone her age to be out. “You look different without your coat and beanie.”
Officer Lyttle laughed and looked down himself. “I guess I do.” He took a seat in the chair Doctor Reynolds had placed beside the bed. “Your doctor didn’t feel you’d be up for talking to me tonight, but as you may have heard, Niles Hemingway is missing. I’m hoping you can help provide answers. Every second counts when investigating a missing person. Do you think you can handle a few questions?”
“Sure.”
His radio buzzed with static, and a woman requested backup for a—
Todd—no, Officer Lyttle turned down the volume before Haley heard the rest. He opened a pad of paper, then removed the cap from a pen. “I have three witnesses who’ve placed Niles on your doorstep, in an altercation with another young man, the night he disappeared.”
Three witnesses. Breathe in. Breathe out. She could do this, talk to Todd. “There was a fight.”
He nodded. “Who was involved?”
“Chris Charming.”
Officer Lyttle wrote on his paper. “And what was this fight about?”
“Me. Niles insulted me. Chris defended—like a stupid male. I tried to get him to let me handle Niles. We went out for—”
“A few years, according to friends and family, and let’s face it, some of our late night chats.”
“Yes. I know him. He says lots of things he doesn’t mean, but he’s not aggressive with fists, just words.”
Officer Lyttle tapped his pen to the paper. “You seem to have a history of violence with men.”
Haley’s stomach churned, and she glanced at her arms, at the black, ugly stitches running from her elbows to her wrists. She pulled the stark white blanket up to her chin. “I guess I do.”
Office Lyttle frowned. “I’m sorry. I wish you would have told me. I could have helped you.”
“I need your help now.”
“Seems you do.”
She shook her head and chewed her lip. “No. It’s worse.”
Haley told the officer everything, about the envelope at the cemetery, about the present in Joce’s room, her odd behavior, Dad missing, the Charmings, the bugs. Giving this burden to someone else was almost as lightening as admitting Dad’s abuse to the doctor. “I have evidence. A ton of it. Christine should have told you.”
Unless she got high and hid in her haven.
“I’m out of the station quite frequently. Why don’t you tell me her full name and address? I’ll follow up with my captain, then give her a call to corroborate your story.”
“Christine Michaels, sir. She lives across the street from me.”
Writing down the name, Officer Lyttle nodded. “Thank you, Haley, for being so honest. I know this must not be easy for you.”
Not at all. Dad tried to kill her. Kill. “How’d I get here?”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean what method of travel?” Officer Lyttle smiled, a bright thing that reached all the way up to his eyes, genuine, warm. She almost wanted to hug him.
“No.”
“Several neighbors reported strange noises coming out of the house.”
“And my dad?”
He nodded, following Haley’s train of thought. “Is here. From what I understand, it took several officers to detain him. After the drugs filtered out of his system, he spouted off a bunch of information about having stumbled upon you cleaning blood from your hands. He says he beat you to find out about the boy and possibly your missing sister, even told everyone you tried poisoning him and have been calling in his and your sister’s absences.”
The officer’s words choked Haley. Breathe in. Breathe out. “No. I didn’t do any of those things.”
“So you say.” All the warmth from moments ago evaporated. This man was all cop, investigator, predator attacking its prey, no longer the guy who cut grass in the cemetery. “We’ll find out.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not if you can prove everything you’ve said.”
She sat up and gasped. “I can. If I can just get… home. All the evidence is safe at the house. I put everything in one spot.”
“You need to speak with your caseworker first.” Officer Lyttle unlocked the cuff. “I’m sorry about this, restraining you without your permission. I just didn’t want you to run off before we had a chance to talk. Victims of violence, Haley, they’re typically runners. They think they can handle the abuse, find ways out of it, or they distort truth in their sensitive brains and convince themselves they’re taking the beatings for good reason.”
For Jocelyn.
“You’re right.” Heat flamed across Haley’s cheeks and she looked away from him, at the window across the room.
“Don’t run anymore, Haley,” Officer Lyttle said, drawing her attention back to him. He smiled, a small, light smile, and twirled his keys. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Eh-hem.” Doctor Reynolds stood at the doorway. “I think it’s time for you to leave. Mrs. Farmingdale, the caseworker, said she’ll be earlier than expected, and I need to evaluate Miss Tremaine before she arrives.”
Smile reappearing, Todd waved and left the room.
He didn’t want Haley to run anymore, but until the psycho was locked behind bars and everyone she loved was safe, running is what she had to do.
No caseworker.
No Gran.
No more pain.
octor Reynolds shined his harsh light in Haley’s eyes as if he enjoyed it, checked her stitches and ribs, and then gave her several documents about alcoholism, abuse, and a long pep talk about not being afraid to ask for help. Haley couldn’t stop the tears or prevent the relief she felt that someone wanted to help and no one had demanded she pack her bags and leave home.
Not yet.
Mrs. Farmingdale had yet to arrive.
Doctor Reynolds paused at the doorway, hand holding the frame. “And, Haley?”
“Yes?”
“I lied about Mrs. Farmingdale being early. I’m sure someone will be by to arrest me later, but I’ll plead my case that in my professional opinion, as your doctor, I didn’t feel you were ready to be questioned. Not after”—Doctor Reynolds pointed at the papers Haley held in her hands—“Make sure you call those places.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“I’ll give you some privacy.” He closed the door, and Haley slipped from the edge of the bed, biting her lip to hold back screams as the full impact of Dad’s abuse rippled through every muscle.
She wheeled the IV stand around the room until she found her clothes and cell phone in a clear plastic bag in a cabinet at the back, then sat on a visitor’s couch, wincing, and stared. So much blood. Dark red stains covered the sleeves of her cut-up shirt. Her jeans were a polka-dot assortment of drops and splatters. Haley’s blood.
Dad tried to kill me.
Ignoring her protesting ribs, Haley rocked back and forth.
Tried to kill me.
Kill. Not hurt. Kill.
To save her.
Dad wanted to kill one daughter to save another, because one daughter looked like Mom. Because one daughter fucked everything up. Because one daughter wasn’t good enough.
Keep moving, Haley. Fix this.
She returned the clothes to the bag and set the phone on the plastic cushion next to her leg, then gr
abbed the sweats and went into the small bathroom with her IV stand, cursing that no one thought to bring shoes.
Haley yanked off the gown, then pressed the material to her hand.
One.
Two.
Three.
She pulled the IV out of her hand, applied pressure for a minute or two, then laid out the clothes on the sink. Under any other circumstances, she would have called for someone to help. The stitches pulled and burned. Her wrapped ribs ached and made Haley gasp for breath every time she moved more than an inch or two in any direction. And the black eye… well, that didn’t effect changing clothes, but seeing the swollen skin, the cut, the dried blood in her greasy, tangled hair and knowing that Dad did this… Haley struggled to hold back tears, struggled to slip the shirt over her head and pull on the pants.
Five minutes passed, ten. She peeked around the door into the hallway. Nurses rushed around pushing carts with computers on them, carrying needles, charts, cups of coffee. Busy. They were all so busy, and no one glanced her way, so Haley walked down the hall as though she were a visitor, pushed the button for the elevator, then pushed the L and Door Close button over and over and over.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The doors opened, and the exit was right there. Right there. One step. Two. Don’t run. Three steps. Four. Cold air poured in as a man pushed a very pregnant woman in a wheelchair into the hospital. Haley broke into the fastest run she could without giving into the pain—or looking like an escaped convict.
She made it outside, glanced back at the red brick building, then took off. Several cars littered the parking lot, even though the clock in her room had indicated 10:00 p.m. Hospitals never slept, never quieted. Too bad this one didn’t have a cab service—or free shoes.
Haley had a long, long way to walk, and the night air seeped through her socks, into her bloodstream. Shivering, she pulled out the cell and called Christine.
Lots of ringing. No answer.
Haley hung up and scrolled through the contacts until she reached Niles’s number. “Oh God.”
Niles was with the psycho, kidnapped. Missing.
She dialed Chris. Hopefully he’d found it somewhere in his heart to forgive Haley. Walking eleven miles without shoes, with these injuries, in this cold… out of the question.
