by Wendy Heard
One eye on him in case he wakes up, I open up my text messages to see what he was doing earlier. I find the last exchange with Veronica and read it fast. There’s the text she sent that must have triggered his reaction to me—I know what you did—and his response, that he was sorry and that he’d have an Uber pick her up in an hour. A white Subaru?
I fumble with the keys and find one that fits the padlock on the sliding warehouse door. I heave the door up. Outside sits a white Subaru.
He has her phone. I know what that means.
I return to Nico’s limp shape and scream, a wordless sound of fury, reach back, and slap him across the face, so hard the cuts on my hand explode into burning and his head rocks to the side. Blood trails along his lips in a little river from his nose. I notice the skin around his eyes is scratched, and he has a bruise on his forehead. I might have given him the forehead bruise when I hit him, but I didn’t scratch at his eyes.
Veronica is feisty. If he attacked her, she’d fight back. If he strangled her, hands tight around her neck like they’d been on mine, she’d scratch his face.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, I’m going to be sick.
He was gone for hours. He could have been anywhere. How can I even begin looking for her?
Maps. If he used navigation, I can see where he went.
With bloody, sticky, shaking hands, I try to unlock his phone. It’s password protected. I grab his limp right hand and press the thumb against the Home button. The screen opens up, and I see Apple and Google Maps. Before the phone can close and lock again, I go to Settings and disable the password protection.
In Apple Maps, I find nothing. But in Google Maps, I find a list of saved places. The most recent search he did was for a lonely freeway intersection, seventy miles east in the desert.
Oh no.
I can’t just leave him here to escape, but I’m not calling the cops and losing hours trying to explain things and taking this phone to the station and having them come here and search the warehouse and—
I have to go to this desert place now and try to find Veronica.
She’s going to be dead.
No. Maybe not. No.
I’m in denial. I know it.
Doesn’t matter. I’m going.
I attack Nico’s Converses, pulling the shoelaces out. I use one shoelace to tie his wrists tightly together in front of him and another to bind his ankles. I want to hit him with the board, over and over again. If I find Veronica dead, I might come back here and do just that. I could kill him. It’s in me; I can feel it.
I keep all three phones and his keys. I padlock the warehouse door behind me and turn toward the Subaru.
The front is damaged, like it’s been in an accident. Half of the bumper is actually missing, along with a large chunk out of the tire well, and what’s left is brutally scraped up. I squat down to examine the dents and scrapes. They’re brown, caked with dirt and pebbles.
It’s clearly drivable, since he managed to get it here. I stumble inside, adjust the seat, and use Nico’s phone to map me to the location he’d pinned. It’s roasting hot in here, but I can’t stop shivering. I feel like I’ll never be warm again.
I start the car. My hands are so unsteady, I almost can’t get the key in. As I drive to the freeway, I consider calling Claudia. But then I think I might be about to find Veronica’s body. Again, I consider calling the police.
I call no one.
I leave San Diego behind, traveling until I’m surrounded by dry, rocky hills covered in brush and cacti. According to Nico’s map, I’m supposed to turn right ahead, on a road that leads into the desert. I slow to take the turn. The map says to turn right at what looks more like a trail than a street.
This is somewhere you go to bury a body.
Something ahead catches my attention: a few pieces of white, scattered along the right shoulder. I pull over and get out.
Black tire tracks are scrawled on the cracked asphalt onto the opposite shoulder and then in a circle, like someone spun out. I approach the pieces of white. They’re the Subaru’s missing bumper and tire well, still caught on the large rock that claimed it.
So he had an accident here. And he just left this evidence and drove away?
I mean, I guess the car isn’t his; it’s probably stolen. So he wouldn’t care.
So if he had the accident, he’d want to get rid of Veronica’s body immediately. He’d have gotten her out and brought her somewhere nearby, done it quickly before someone came along and offered to help. I survey the area, trying to imagine where he’d have gone.
On one side of the street, the hills are steep, cragged, and rocky. I can’t imagine him carrying her over that.
To the other side, a wide, flat expanse rolls gently up to a hill. It’s a flat enough surface to carry someone across.
He left me alive in the van. Maybe he did the same with her, neglected to strangle her all the way. If he was in a hurry, he might have dug a very shallow grave. Or he might not have dug a grave at all.
I lock the Subaru and pocket the keys. I walk into the desert.
The brush and cacti stretch out around me in an endless, rocky expanse. The ground is rough, and even in my running shoes, I can barely keep my footing. Ahead is the small range of hills. Maybe I could aim for that and get a better vantage point. I pick my way across the rugged landscape. It’s burning hot, my skin frying in the sun, and the air is alive with the singing of birds.
At the top of the hill, I come to a screeching halt. An unexpected, steep drop plummets down to a deep ravine. I look back the way I came. There’s the Subaru, small and lonely. In the distance, a series of wind turbines rotate creepily.
I can’t imagine him rock climbing down into the ravine while holding her. He’s strong, but he’s not Superman. Unless he just threw her down there. God, please, no.
I peer into the shadows of the ravine. The ground is far away, hidden by the rock protrusions in the cliff. I pace the edge, eyes on—
I see her.
Splayed out on her back at the bottom, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. Pale skin. Dark hair.
“No!” I hear myself scream.
I stumble back. I fall on my butt.
I’m sobbing. I can’t. This can’t.
With hands that shake so hard they almost don’t function as hands anymore, I get out Nico’s phone and I dial 911.
“Please have service, please have service,” I whisper.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
My voice is unrecognizable, rough and broken. “I’m in the desert and my friend Veronica fell off a cliff. I need you to send an ambulance, fire department, everything.”
The connection crackles, and the voice changes, sharpens. “Do you know where you are, miss?”
“I took the 8 east from San Diego and turned left onto a street called McCain Valley, then turned right on a tiny road near the wind farm. Can you find that?”
She repeats it back to me.
“You’ll see a white Subaru parked on the shoulder of the road. That’s where I am.”
“We’ll send a team out. They should be there in half an hour. Please stay on the road so they can see you and you can lead them to her. What is your name, miss?”
“Mick. Micaela Young. But half an hour? What if she’s alive down there? They need to get here sooner!”
“It takes time to deploy a search and rescue team. I promise, they’ll be there soon. Do you have water for yourself? You need to stay hydrated.”
“No! I’m going to try to go down and help her! The car is on the road right behind me. They just need to turn right at the car and head for the hill.”
“Miss, do not try to go down there. You’ll hurt yourself and delay her medical treatment. Do you understand?”
“Fuck you.” I hang up the phone, shove it in my pocket, and start looking for a way down. At last, I decide on what looks like a mini-ravine, where I can get my feet and hands into a crack in the earth that runs all
the way down to the bottom.
I try to remember what I learned at the climbing gym, always moving one limb at a time, never placing a foot before having a steady grip. Slow and steady, the instructor had told us.
My foot slips, and one of the rocks I’m holding on to disengages from the cliff. Rocks go tumble-bouncing down. My right hand and foot flail, and I panic, but then I catch a new handhold and take some deep breaths.
I did this on the bridge. I was panicking, but I did it. Coach’s voice echoes in my memory. Is today the day it’s too much? Is this the thing that defeats you?
“No!” I roar. I find a new hold and keep going. Foot, hand, foot, hand. Left, right, left, right. My hands are past pain, my heart past pounding. I’m empty, void of anything but concentration.
And then I’m there—it’s done. My foot finds the ground, and I fall to my knees. For a moment, I can’t move. My limbs are limp and useless.
I push myself to my feet. I stumble upright and run toward where I remember seeing her.
There she is, tangled and bent, her head fallen softly to the side, lips parted, eyes closed, skin red from sunburn.
I reach out and touch her neck, searching for a pulse. She’s warm, but it’s a hundred and ten degrees out here; that means nothing.
I feel a pulse!
There’s blood on the dirt around her head. “Oh God,” I hear myself say. I check her head, feeling up inside the back of her hair. My hands come away bloody. I find a large cut just behind her left ear.
I need a bandage, something to put pressure on the wound.
My shirt. I whip it off and fold it into a long, narrow rectangle. Afraid to move her neck, I slip it under her head and wrap it around tight.
What else can I do?
I feel for her pulse again. Super fast. That’s not good.
Her eyes open halfway.
“Veronica!” I put a hand on her cheek. “You’re really hurt. Please don’t move. Paramedics are on their way.”
Her brows draw together. She swallows, the sound dry. A low, weak moan pulls from her throat.
“You’re in pain?”
She nods, just a hair, and then winces.
“Can you tell me what hurts? Don’t move.”
She moves her lips for a minute before the words come out. “Arm,” she whispers.
“It’s broken. But they can fix that. What else?”
“Head.”
“You have a cut and probably a concussion. Anything else?”
“Everything.”
“Can you feel your legs?”
She frowns. “My hip. Something.”
I laugh. I realize I’m crying. I’m so happy she’s alive. “Can you move your toes? Your feet?”
I watch as her checkered Vans wiggle around, and then she screech-moans. “Owwww.”
“Leg?”
“Ankle. Leg. Side.”
“Ankle and leg is okay,” I say. “There’s nothing that can happen to an ankle or a leg that can’t be fixed.”
“Side.”
I pull her shirt up to look. Her ribs look buckled, and a dark blue bruise stretches from her armpit to her hip. It reminds me of an injury I saw on a reality show, where someone got kicked by a horse. She has broken ribs, and she’s bleeding internally.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and call 911. When the operator picks up, I say, “I’m waiting for paramedics off a road called McCain Valley, my friend fell off a cliff. When will they be here?”
“What’s your name?”
“Micaela Young.”
“One moment.”
The operator from before takes the line. “Mick?”
“I found her,” I say, breathless. “I mean, I got down to her. She’s alive. But she’s hurt really bad. She has internal bleeding, broken ribs, broken arm and leg, a head injury, and I don’t know what else. She can move her feet, so her spine probably isn’t broken, but I’m still not moving her.”
“Mick, I’m glad you’re okay, but I wish you hadn’t gone down there.”
“Well, it’s too late now.”
“Search and rescue are on their way. Keep your phone on. We’ll call you if we have a hard time finding you.”
We hang up, and I return my attention to Veronica, who’s watching me with a spaced-out, half-awake expression on her face. I tell her, “They’re on their way. Hang on. Pain meds coming your way soon.”
“Drugs are good,” she whispers.
I’m sobbing. “I thought I’d find your body out here. I can’t believe Nico let you live.”
“He thought I was dead.” She smiles faintly and closes her eyes.
“Don’t get sleepy!” I pat her cheek. “Keep those eyes open.”
She seems to drag them open. Instead of looking at me, she looks up at the sky. “I never noticed birds before,” she whispers.
I look up. Sure enough, sparrows are flitting around above us, going on with their sparrow business.
“Oh,” she gasps. Her eyes open wide, and she clutches at me with her working hand. “The envelope. The pictures.”
“What pictures?” Is she delirious?
She points around in circles, at the rocks and bushes. “Find. Hide. The envelope. The pictures.”
CHAPTER FORTY
MICK
The paramedics take another entire hour to arrive. It’s the longest hour of my life, longer than being trapped in the van. I keep my fingers to Veronica’s neck, feeling her pulse get quicker, slower, quicker, slower. She finally passes out, leaving me alone in the heat, surrounded by birdsong and the smell of blood and dust.
I keep my eyes up, glued to the top of the cliff. Come on, come on, come on, I pray inside my head.
When they peek their heads over the cliff, I stand up and scream. “Down here! Here!” I wave my arms around maniacally.
They wave back, and one of them screams, “We’ll be right down!”
“Hurry!”
They unspool a rope ladder. With impressive speed and efficiency, two uniformed, backpack-laden paramedics descend. Another pair lowers a stretcher from the top of the cliff. They run toward me, and I give them a breathless rundown of Veronica’s condition. The woman, a deeply tanned blonde with crow’s-feet and strong-looking hands, gives Veronica a quick examination. “She moved her feet? You’re sure?”
“Yes. While she was awake, I asked her to move them. I haven’t moved her back or neck at all except to bandage the head wound. It was bleeding like crazy.”
She raises her eyebrows to me while her partner, a young man, examines Veronica’s broken arm. “How did you know to do all that?”
“I’m a lifeguard. We’re trained for things.”
“Not this trained.”
“I don’t know, I just wanted her to be okay!”
I watch them tape Veronica’s arm across her chest and strap her onto the mobile stretcher. I hold my breath as they get her up the cliff. It’s incredible. They’re so clean, so quick. I could watch them work all day.
I want to do this, I realize. This job they have. This is the job I want.
I grab the phones out of the Subaru and ride in the back of the ambulance with Veronica and the female paramedic. As we whoop our way to the hospital, I say, “I’m worried about internal bleeding from the broken ribs.”
“Me too, honey.” She’s busy with her stethoscope. “How did she fall?”
I stare at her for a long moment, and then I say, “I didn’t see.” I get Veronica’s phone out. “Let me use her thumb so I can unlock her phone and call her mom.”
She steps aside, and I use Veronica’s uninjured hand gently. I pull Claudia’s number up out of the contacts. It’s listed under Mama Kitten, and I have to take some deep breaths before dialing.
“Veronica?” Claudia’s voice is worried.
“Claudia, it’s Mick.”
Silence for two seconds, and then, “Where’s Veronica?”
“She’s here. She’s hurt. Nico tried to kill her. But we’re in th
e ambulance now, heading to the hospital.”
Silence for one second, and then, “Oh my God. She’s okay?”
“She’s not okay, but she’s alive. I left Nico back at his warehouse. I hit him and ran to help Veronica. Can you help me figure out what to do?” I sound like a little girl, and it’s only now that I realize how lost I feel. I hear myself start crying.
“What’s wrong with Veronica?”
“I think he pushed her off a—” I’m not going to say cliff. “Off a big hill. She has some broken bones, and she hit her head. But she was talking, she was coherent.”
She makes a few choked noises, and then she says, “What hospital are you going to?”
“I don’t know. Hang on. What hospital are we going to?” I ask the paramedic, who’s looking at me with huge eyes.
“Scripps in Eastlake, off the 125,” she replies.
I pass the name of the hospital along. Claudia says, “I’m going to meet you there, and I’ll call the detective so you can give him your statement. Keep her phone on you.”
The phone goes dead.
I put my face in my hands.
The paramedic says, “It sounds like we need to call the police.”
“They’re going to meet us there.”
“Even so.”
It takes a thousand years to get to the hospital. They rush Veronica to the back, leaving me in the waiting area. I feel naked in my sports bra. I ask the nurse behind the counter if she can give me a shirt, and she says she’ll do it, but it never comes.
At last, Claudia bursts in followed by a middle-aged man with close-cropped black hair in business clothes. I stand and wave them down, and then behind them, a man slips in with a big, professional-looking camera. He raises it and takes my picture. I’m so confused, I just stare at him like an idiot. The man with Claudia follows my eyes, swings around, and then pushes the photographer forcefully out of the ER. He slams the door shut on the guy.
Claudia goes straight to the counter. “Veronica Villarreal. She’s my daughter, and you’re going to tell me where she is right now.”
