by S. M. Soto
“What are you saying?” I keep my tone calm and even. My expression remains void.
Vincent goes silent, staring down at the bland sheets on the bed, avoiding my gaze. “I’m saying we went off a fucking cliff, man. She tried to kill me before I got out. I don’t know where she is now. All I fucking know is, she was dangerous. And she needed help. This was for the best.”
I process in silence. I feel the heaviness settle around the room, the weight of their eyes on me. Likely waiting for whatever it is I’m going to do next. No doubt, they expect me to lash out at this news, but I won’t do that. I glance at Vincent, my brother, lying in that bed, and I come to a conclusion about all of this.
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?” Marcus asks, pushing up from the chair.
“Releasing a statement to the press. This could be good publicity for Kings so might as well use it.” Marcus’s face eases with relief. He obviously thought I was going to do something drastic instead—and he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Baz is right. We need to stay ahead of this and spin it to our benefit,” Zach pipes in, getting everyone on board.
I push out of the room, and with each step I take, I feel the tension building and the anger consuming me. My stomach twists with that foreign sensation again at the thought of Mackenzie being gone. I think about the last conversation I had with her, and my eyes slam shut.
Fucking Christ.
I need answers. And I need to hear them from her. I just hope that’s still a viable possibility. Because if she really is gone? I don’t know what I’ll do.
There’s pent-up rage brewing deep inside me as I leave the hospital. I feel it boiling just beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over in chaos. The second I step out into the cool early morning air, I have the urge to punch something. To hurt someone.
Nothing makes sense.
I meet Dan at the car parked along the curb and slide in. The anger seeps off me in waves, changing the atmosphere in the vehicle immediately. My hands curl around the leather of my seat. I hear the leather creak beneath the force of my grip, and it’s a wonder I’m not driving my fist through the glass window.
“I need you to find out why Vincent was in Ferndale last night.”
We lock gazes in the rearview mirror, and something passes over his eyes. It’s quick, but not quick enough. It gives me pause. I’ve never had a reason not to trust Dan, but I’m starting to question every person around me. There’s something I’m missing. I can feel it.
And I’m going to figure it out.
Groggily, I stir on the flat surface and peel my eyes open. I blink rapidly, clearing the fog that’s clouding my thoughts. When my vision steadies, fear squeezes the air from my lungs. I try to jolt my body forward, out of this bed, but I can’t seem to move. My eyes widen, horror snaking down my spine, as realization sets in, and I fidget, trying to figure out what’s happening. Trying to find a way out of here. I let out a choked, fearful sob when I glance down and realize I’m strapped to a bed. My good wrist and my good leg are being held down with straps to keep me in place.
“Where the hell am I?” The words scratch at my throat when they leave my lips. I dart my gaze around the sterile room as panic fills my chest. The walls are so white, it looks like someone comes in daily to layer a fresh coat of paint. The lights are a blinding fluorescent that make you feel anything but comfortable. The door suddenly opens, a blast of cool air following. It groans on its hinges, almost as if it’s not opened very often. I press my body flat against the bed, trying to disappear, wishing it would swallow me whole, as everything starts coming back to me in flashes.
My parents really sent me to a fucking mental institution. The bastards.
“Good morning, Ms. Wright. I’m Dr. Poppy Aster, the head of psychiatry and psychology here. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Did she just say Poppy?
Poppy?
The woman in charge of my mental health at this moment is fucking named Poppy. Christ.
I stop trying to fight against the binds. I’m sure that’s what they want you to do. They want you to fight it, so you can look crazier—like you actually belong here. And I refuse to look any crazier than I’m sure I already do. This feels like a new low, strapped here with a stranger staring down at me, questions filling her eyes.
“How are you feeling today?”
I swallow the sudden lump blocking the airway in my throat. I’m unsure of how to respond. Part of me wants to demand that she let me the fuck out of this place, but if it doesn’t go over well, I need to at least have one person on my side. I clear my throat that feels overly worked and scratchy. “Tired mostly.”
She smiles down at me placatingly as she walks deeper into the room. She seems to be taking extra caution, slowly creeping farther and farther inside, as if I won’t notice. What does she think I’m going to do, hop off this bed and attack her?
“I’d imagine so. Are you up for a chat?” she asks, when she’s at the foot of the bed. With perfect porcelain skin and silver hair, Dr. Aster looks like the villain in every movie, well, ever. She has on square-framed glasses, but there’s no hiding the calculating gleam in her bright blue eyes. From the second she walked into the room and looked at me, I’ve felt the calculation—her working on internal solutions or ways to get me better. Little does she know, I don’t need to get better. I don’t need a doctor. I just need to get the fuck out of here.
I nod my head minutely, not trusting myself with words. She smiles. It’s not soft; yet, it’s not cold either. It’s just a smile she’s pasted on her face to make me feel comfortable, even though it has the opposite effect. With a wave of her hand, two nurses slip into the room, each releasing me from the binds. It’s not like I can get out of this bed, but it’s better than being strapped down like an animal. The two nurses are young. Maybe a few years older than me, closing in on their early thirties I’d imagine.
“Sorry about that,” Dr. Aster says, eyeing my reddened wrist that I’m massaging on the pillows on the bed, since I can’t use my other hand to rub it out. The bulky cast makes that impossible. “When you were brought in, you were sedated, but I wanted to take some extra precautions in case you woke up not so…calm.”
I nod, fighting to hide the grimace that wants to steal over my face. I tense in anticipation, allowing the nurses to prop me up. Everything hurts. There’s a dull, pain-filled ache that runs through my body. It’s insistent, demanding to be made aware of. Hell, even breathing hurts. The pain that’s the most cause for concern is the one radiating from my abdomen. With my good arm, I run my hand over the burning sensation radiating from my stomach. There’s some sort of bandaging there.
My eyes slam shut as memories of metal piercing my skin flash in my mind. They’re so vivid, I’m reliving the pain at that moment all over again. The way the cool metal pierced my flesh, ripping apart my skin. It felt like someone was tearing me open with fire and dry ice. It burned, leaving the curdling, rancid taste of pain on my tongue.
With a reserved air surrounding her, the silver-haired doctor watches me process. Her head cocks to the side only a few centimeters, but I see the cogs churning again, and I don’t like it. Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, I run my hand over my hair, trying to tame it. Anything to make me look less crazy. I’m sure my current hairstyle fits right in with that of a mental patient.
Dr. Aster smiles at my attempts, and once again, it’s that smile that I’m beginning to despise.
“I’m going to ask you a few simple questions before we go any further. Sound good?”
I nod. Even the small movement has pain ricocheting down my spine. I’ve yet to look at my reflection in the mirror, but the pain I currently feel throbbing from head to toe, I can imagine what I look like just fine.
She pulls up a chair to the foot of my bed and takes a seat, crossing one of her legs over the other. Placing a chrome clipboard on her lap, she gives me her full attention. “Can you tell me you
r name, and anything else you want to share about yourself?”
“Mackenzie Wright. I’m twenty-five. Originally from Ferndale, but now I live in New York. I’m a freelance writer and sometimes journalist.” The doctor purses her lips and nods, scribbling something down on the clipboard.
“Perfect. Can you tell me what happened the night of the accident, Mackenzie? Do you remember much?”
I pause, uncertain if I should tell her everything. The last thing I need is to be kept here forever. The less crazy I seem, the less likely they are to keep me here against my will.
She reaches out between us, patting the cast covering my leg reassuringly. “You have nothing to worry about. This is just to make sure you remember what happened that night. We’re trying to put the pieces together, and we need your help to do so. You have nothing to be afraid of. This is a safe space.”
I narrow my gaze, wary of her and the nurses hovering near the door. It’s like they’re just waiting on the sidelines for me to say one wrong thing before they pounce on me and strap me back down. I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and chew as I process, unsure if she’s just saying that so they have a reason to keep me here or if she really means it. I’m sure it’s the former, so I lie.
“I don’t remember much. I just remember being in the car one minute, and the next, we were going off a cliff.”
There. Vague.
Not crazy.
“Right. So you said ‘we.’ You’re referring to Vincent Hawthorne, correct? The man you were with in said car.”
I freeze, my eyes widening ever so slightly, at how much she knows. How the hell does she know who I was with? Goddamn police reports. I’ve yet to speak to the authorities again since that last day I woke up in a hospital room. I’m sure it’s because of what I said that landed me in here. That was enough for them to leave me alone, for now at least.
“I, uh, yeah. Yeah, I was with Vincent,” I mutter.
She writes something else down, before looking back up at me expectantly. “Do you remember why you followed him back to his hometown?”
My forehead puckers, and my stomach dips at the unsettling comment. I open my mouth to refute that statement, but the words don’t come. No. She has it wrong. He followed me.
I shake my head, feeling the need to clear my name. “No, he followed me. I grew up in Ferndale. I went to visit my sister’s grave that night, then I went into the woods. He was following me.”
She frowns thoughtfully. “Did you feel cornered? Like you had reason to be afraid of him?”
“Yes!” I blurt, raising my voice. “He was dangerous! He is dangerous.”
“If he was so dangerous, why would you allow him in your car? Why would you drive with him? Were you angry? Is that why you drove off the cliff with him?”
“What?” I scoff incredulously. My chest heaves violently, as I work to control my anger. “No. No, you got it all wrong. He tried to kill me. He had a gun, for fuck’s sake! That was the only reason I got in the car with him. He forced me to drive at gunpoint. I’d never willingly get in the car with that asshole!”
“A gun?” She pauses her hasty scribbling. “It was his gun, or was it yours?”
“Are you kidding? It was his! Where would I even get a gun from?”
The doctor lowers her pen, slowly taking in my angry expression. “Hey, remember I said this is a safe space. You don’t need to get angry. I’m just trying to understand.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I feel like I’m being attacked,” I retort, heat rising to my cheeks, and my chest rising and falling rapidly with the force of my anger.
She purses her lips and shifts, crossing her left leg over her right. “Do you feel that way often? Like you’re being attacked?”
I pause, thrown off by her quick shift in topics. “What? Yes. No. Maybe?”
“Hmm.” She begins her scribbling again. “Now the cliff, do you remember what happened up there?”
“I already told you. One second, I was on the road, and the next, we were going over the cliff. I gave the police my statement. Why are you asking me?”
“And you were the driver?” she asks, ignoring me.
“Yes.”
“Do you think, in the back of your mind, it could be possible that you wanted to go over the cliff that night?”
“Of course not,” I lie.
The corner of her mouth ticks up as though she can read right through me and my lies. She makes a point of pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then clasping her hands in her lap. “See, the thing is, the tire marks along the road are inconsistent with someone losing control. In fact, they tell a different story altogether. It’s almost as if you wanted to drive off that cliff. You accelerated instead of swerving to save the both of you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come. She’s got me. And fucking hell, there’s nothing I can do about it. I lick my suddenly dry and cracked lips, trying to appeal to some part of her.
“Look,” I say, trying to lean forward and shift, but all I do is cause a ripple of pain to shoot through my body. “That night, I had put all the pieces of my sister’s murder together, and all of it led back to Vincent Hawthorne, Zach Covington, Marcus Whitehorn, and Trent Ainsworth. That was the reason I drove into the woods. I dug up her bloody shirt they had buried in the ground nine years ago. I had it. I held it in my hands before Vincent got there. If someone can just go back to where I was, I’m sure they can find some kind of evidence that there was a struggle.”
My stomach turns at the sympathetic look on her face. It’s the first time she’s looked human and not like some doctor robot hell-bent on keeping me here. “There was nothing there at all. You may not remember, but the police, or your doctor, explained this to you. There wasn’t even a hole in the ground that was dug up. Just a shovel that must’ve flown out of the back of your trunk when the car rolled.”
My bottom lip trembles at the unfairness. How could they have cleaned everything up so fast? What’s even more worrisome is now, now I’m starting to question everything about that night. Did I…did I imagine it all? I’d been so sleep-deprived after the whole Baz situation. Could I have imagined it? What if it all was some sick dream?
I quickly put a cap on those thoughts. There’s no way. I know I was there. I dug that fucking hole. I held that shirt. I felt Madison pull me out of the car that night. There’s no other explanation.
“No. That’s not right. That can’t be. I was there that night. I dug a goddamn hole in the earth. Check under my nails for dirt!” I thrust my hands out toward her. She looks down, then back up, then back down to her notepad.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mackenzie. Things don’t look good for you right now. To enforcement officials, it looks like you followed Mr. Hawthorne and drove your rental car off a cliff. His statement says you tried to kill him. He mentioned his close friend recently broke up with you, and that you had become angry and jealous. You thought it was his fault, so you wanted to take matters into your own hands.”
I blink, stupefied by how easy it was for him to flip the script. He probably didn’t think I’d actually survive after leaving me there, so he figured I wouldn’t be able to stand up for myself. One by one, tears of disbelief stream down my face as she goes on.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I can’t believe he has everyone fooled.
I can’t believe he’s turning everything around on me. It’s happening all over again, just like it did nine years ago.
Sniffing back the tears, I feel my chin quivering as I try to steady my voice. “That wasn’t what happened. I didn’t set out to hurt Vincent. He followed me. He admitted to killing my sister, then he stabbed me. He stabbed me and left me for dead in that car.”
“In his own words, he said he did it?”
My eyes slam shut as I replay what he said. More tears fall as I think about the huge part Baz held in everything that happened that summer. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it. To s
ay he did it, too. They killed her together, but I don’t.
“Yes. He told me he killed her just before he stabbed me and fled. I don’t…I don’t remember much of what happened after that. If it wasn’t for—”
I stop, cutting myself off. Talking about Madison and how she saved me is what led me in here in the first place, so talking about it again isn’t such a good idea.
“If it wasn’t for who?” she asks with too much interest in her voice. She leans forward on her chair as if she’s trying to get closer to me, a closer look at my mind. “Your sister?” she prompts at my fearful silence.
I scrape a frustrated hand down my face, trying to hold back the impending sob of desperation. “I know it sounds crazy, but she got me out of there. The car was literally going to roll down the cliff if she hadn’t helped me.” I implore her with my eyes to understand.
The doctor finally sets her notebook down on the clipboard, seemingly done with her notes. For now, at least.
“Okay.” She sighs. “I’m going to tell you what I think happened. Then we’ll talk about your injuries, why you’re here, and what we do now. I personally think there was bad blood between you and Mr. Hawthorne. I think you went into the woods that night with ill intentions. Whether you followed him, he followed you, whatever you were there for, you were going to make him pay in some way, were you not?”
I don’t say a word because even though her theory is wrong, she has one thing right. Once I had what I needed, I was going to make them pay. By whatever means necessary. I look away from her, not wanting her to the read the truth in my eyes.
“And you want to know what else I think? I don’t believe you lost control. I think you drove off that cliff. I think you’d just had your heart broken, and this was the only way out for you. And because he was there, you took it out on him, too.”
I grit my teeth, fighting back a fresh wave of tears.
“You had a ruptured spleen. Severe blood loss from the wound in your abdomen, plenty of broken bones, and a concussion.” She jerks his chin toward my battered and casted body on the bed, and I glance away. “The doctor placed you in a medically induced coma for a week. The paramedics found you in the dirt, bleeding out. Any later and your chances of living would’ve been slim. You arrived at our facility a few days ago, and you’ve been in and out of sleep, which is to be expected after what happened. And listen, you were banged around, pitched at a tremendous velocity, and then jolted to a stop. Your body isn’t going to be kind to you during this healing process. It’s going to be painful and slow. A traumatic brain injury is also something we need to worry about. It’s invisible to most of our measuring tools, so I can’t tell you with any certainty that you’ll one day wake up as good as new, but we can make the best of it. We can try.
