by Lauren Snow
It’s throwing me for a loop because he doesn’t strike me as the type to be like this. How could someone who looks like him have such a dark, twisted mind? He just seems so . . . together and in control. But this journal says something completely opposite of my first impression of him.
I don’t know what else to do with the notebook besides keep it. I look around me before stuffing it inside my purse.
Maybe by some weird stroke of fate, Pearce and I will run into each other again. Then I’ll be able to return this thing. And hope that somewhere down the line, he gets the help that he needs.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dammit! What happened to the journal?! My heart stops beating. My blood runs cold. Panic sets in instantly. The nurse looks at me, probably wondering why the hell I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks as she’s leading me to the room.
“Everything okay, sir?” she asks.
I pat my coat pockets nervously. “No. I think I dropped something.”
“What was it?”
“A notebook. Like a memo pad,” I tell her.
“Well, I didn’t see you drop it. If it’s still out on the floor in the waiting room, someone probably swiped it by now.”
Wow. That makes me feel loads better. Thanks nurse.
“I gotta go check—”
“Sir, is it urgent to get it right this second? I don’t mean to be harsh, but we’ve got a lotta people we need to tend to. And the sooner we can get you in and out, the better.”
“Ma’am! You don’t understand. There’s very sensitive information inside that notebook!”
“Sir, please relax. The last thing we want is for your pressure to spike. Okay? We’ve gotta get your hand together. C’mon. Follow me.”
“I can’t relax,” I say. She tries to gently tug on my arm, but I resist. “I have to get that journal.”
“Sir, I’m sure someone probably turned it in to the front desk already. You can check with them afterward.”
Now she sings a different tune. At first, it was ‘someone swiped it’. Now it’s ‘someone turned it in’. I don’t care who did what with it. I just need it back. And I need it back now.
“Lady, I can’t afford to have that thing floating around in public,” I tell her. “The last thing I need is for it to fall into the wrong hands.”
“Mister, you can get it after I take a look at your hand,” she doubles down. “Is that fair enough?”
I roll my eyes and let it go. Huffing with annoyance, I surrender and follow her to the room. She sits me down in a chair and tells me to hang tight just for a second while she runs to tend to another injury. Short staffed, she says.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she says, and leaves.
I look at my bandaged hand while I wait. The red splotch is growing. The bleeding has started up again. I get up, walk to the door, and poke my head into the hallway to get someone’s attention. Nurses and doctors frantically zip from room to room. They look like human pinballs. The bustle throws me off a bit, as I don’t know who to yell for or talk to.
“Uh, excuse me?” I don’t want to shout, but I raise my voice loud enough for someone to take notice. Anyone.
A couple of nurses glance in my general direction, but neither of them come over to see what I want. They both disappear into different rooms, probably to tend to higher priority patients.
One nurse jogs right in front of me and I stop her before she gets too far. “Um, excuse me, Miss. I’m sorry. I know you’re probably on your way to someone who’s way more critical than me, but I need your help.” I raise my bloodied hand.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Here, let’s fix that.” She practically shoves me back into my room and tells me to sit.
“Thank you, Miss.”
“No, no, don’t mention it. That looks pretty bad. What happened to it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My friend,” I tell her. “He cracked a bottle on top of my hand.”
“Sheesh, that’s intense!”
“You’re tellin’ me.” I peep the name on her lab coat. Her name’s Rheese. She seems really nice. Much nicer than the other nurse.
“What’s the pain like on a scale of one to ten?” she asks.
“Hmm. About a six. It was at a solid nine an hour ago.” I try to flex my wounded hand, but it barely gives. The tension won’t allow it.
“That’s not too bad. We’re gonna try to get that down to a one, though.” She slips on a fresh pair of gloves and fishes through the cabinet above the sink for some fresh gauze.
“Hey, I apologize if I took you away from someone more serious,” I say. “I know you guys are super busy tonight.”
“No, don’t you worry about that. Everyone who comes through here needs to be seen to. Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
She takes my hand and inspects the extent of the damage. “It doesn’t hurt when I hold it up like this, does it?”
“Only slightly.”
“Okay. I’ll be mindful of not putting so much pressure on it.” Rheese unwraps the towel from around my hand and tosses it in the trash. She cleans the wound with peroxide, tweezes out tiny fragments of glass which actually did end up being lodged in my flesh, and then she begins winding a piece of gauze around my hand.
“Who was supposed to tend to you before?”
“I didn’t even get her name,” I confess. “But I don’t like her.”
Rheese snickers. “If my guess is good, I’d say that was probably Brenda.” She lowers her tone to a discreet volume. “No one on staff likes her,” she whispers. I laugh.
“Hmm. That’s very telling,” I say.
“May I ask what she did that made you not like her?”
“I told her that I dropped something that was very, very important for me to have, and she wouldn’t even let me go back out and get it. It would’ve taken just two seconds.”
“What was it?”
“A journal. Something for certain eyes only.”
“Well, hopefully, someone was a good Samaritan and turned it in to the front desk.”
I chuckle. “Funny. That’s the same thing Brenda said.”
“Maybe someone saw it and picked it up for you. Was anyone sitting next to you? Well, that’s a stupid question. The waiting room was full of people.” She giggles.
“Yeah, there was. This girl who I was chatting with for a bit before I got called back. Maybe she has it.”
My stomach performed somersaults at the realization. Maybe Wendie did have it. I can only hope she didn’t open it and read it.
CHAPTER FIVE
After over two and a half hours of waiting, an orderly finally rolls Karlie out in a wheelchair. She has stitches in her forehead. Instantly, my insides incinerate. I get livid all over again, but try to keep it at bay. The main thing is that my friend is alive and okay. The latter I can tell because she’s wearing a smile.
I smile back. “Hey,” I say, waving at her.
“Hey, friend,” she says, kneading her forehead. She grimaces a little. She must still be in pain.
“How’re you feeling?” I take a step toward her. I want to squeeze her and hug her so bad, but the doctors told me she’s still pretty fragile.
“As good as can be expected. I think I can walk, though.” Karlie plants both her hands on the arms of the wheelchair and struggles to lift her butt up out the seat.
“Easy!” I warn her.
The orderly assists her to her feet, and I assist him.
“Is she really okay to walk?” I ask him.
“She really shouldn’t be, but she should be fine,” he says.
“See, Karlie. You’re not supposed to be—”
“Ah, I’m okay!” she insists, waving me off dismissively.
The orderly laughs. “You’ve got a live one on your hands,” he teases.
“You have no idea,” I tell him. “Thank you for your help.”
“Not a problem, ma’am. You ladies have a wonderful night.” He takes the wheelchair a
nd leaves.
I interlock my arm with Karlie’s as I guide her to the exit. She’s got a slight limp, but she can actually walk, to my surprise. She must have every god in the pantheon on her side to not be confined to a hospital bed right now in critical condition.
I make sure she’s got all her winter gear on before we go outside. We enter the brisk February air and wait beneath the entrance canopy for a cab to arrive. I’d called ahead for one. It should be here in about two minutes.
“Cold enough for you?” I ask her.
She hunches her shoulders and shudders dramatically. “It is,” she says through chattering teeth. “I hate it here. I told you, at the first opportunity, I’m moving to Florida.”
I laugh at her. “I may have to join you, friend. I’ve been in Philly my whole life, and still can’t get used to this weather.”
A yellow Crown Vic suddenly pulls into the entrance. Our taxi’s here. The driver rolls down the passenger’s side window.
“Here to pick up Wendie Myers?” he says with a thick Indian accent.
“Yes, that’s me.”
Karlie and I get inside and he asks us where to.
“2309 Greyson Avenue,” I tell him.
“Got it. How much do you normally pay?”
“About ten dollars usually.”
“Okay. Ten it is.” He turns off the fare meter and we hop on the road.
Karlie rests her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes. I look over at her.
“You okay, hun?” I ask her.
“Yeah, just tired,” she mumbles. “Thanks for waiting for me.”
“Of course. I wasn’t gonna leave you.”
She looks up at me and smiles, then leans in the opposite direction, resting her head on the window.
I chuckle. “You sure you’re okay over there?”
“Positive. Just gonna take a quick snooze.”
While she does that, I decide to get out Pearce’s journal and sift through it again. Karlie must have heard the rustling pages, because immediately, she pops her head up.
“What is that?” she asks, frowning.
I look over at her, wondering why she couldn’t just fall asleep like she promised. I wanted to read this in peace.
“It’s a long story,” I reply. I took a page out of Pearce’s book from when I asked him what happened to his hand. I wonder how he’s doing right now.
Karlie giggles. “I’ve got time,” she says.
Touché.
I breathe a sigh of reluctance. “I met this guy named Pearce in the ER waiting room,” I tell her. “When they called him back, he dropped this.”
“And you kept it?”
I shush her and glance at the driver to make sure he isn’t hearing our conversation.
“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose!” I whisper. “I was gonna give it back to him, but he left before I got a chance to.”
Karlie shoots me a doubtful look that throws my heart in a guilty flurry. “Mm-hmm, sure. Was the guy cute?”
I scoff out a laugh. “Why is that detail important?” My face grows warm like it did when Pearce told me I was pretty.
“Just curious. There’s gotta be a reason you kept his stuff.”
As much as I hate to admit to her . . .
“Okay, there is. But not for the reasons you might think. And yes, he was cute. Smokin’ hot, actually.”
Karlie nudges me teasingly. “So it’s like in high school when you steal your crush’s diary to see if he likes you?”
I chuckle. “What? I think the only person lame enough to do that in school was you.”
And if memory serves me well, she more than likely was. Karlie and I have been friends since the ninth grade, so I know her well. She’s nuts sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
“Whatever,” she laughs. “So what’s in dream-boy’s journal? What’d you see?”
“Stuff that isn’t so warm and romantic, I’m afraid,” I tell her.
“Really? That’s interesting. Can I see?”
“You sure you wanna see this?”
“It can’t be that bad, right?”
I make a face that says otherwise and hand over “The King’s Journal” to let her indulge in its content. As she flips through it, she frowns, grimaces, flinches, and her eyes double in size.
“What the hell?” she says softly.
“Told you.”
“Oh no, no, no. This is not cool.”
We finally arrive at my apartment. I pay the driver and Karlie and I enter my humble abode. My little shabby studio digs in the Radcliffe District of Philly.
We peel off our winter stuff and plop down on my sofa. Karlie immediately regrets it, holding her lower back.
“Ooph, shouldn’t have done that! Here comes the pain!”
“Careful, Karls!”
“Hey, you’re the one who should be careful,” she replies. “Especially with this thing in your possession.” She holds up the pocket-sized diary. “You really need to throw this thing away. What if he laced it with poison or something?” She flings it out of her hand at the thought. “Or what if he tries to hunt you down and kill you to get this back?”
Her theories give me the chills. But she’s right. I don’t know this guy from Adam. And from what I read in his journal, he seems very, very unhinged. No telling what he’s capable of. I have to return it. I won’t feel right if I hold on to it.
“You know what I’m gonna do?” I say.
“What?”
“Look him up on Facebook.”
“So you’re gonna try to get it back to him?”
“Yeah. I can’t just throw it away. Even though it should be burned with holy fire. It’s his property, so the right thing to do is to return it. Right?”
Karlie makes a face.
My head hurts just thinking about how many ways this could go. If I had just given it back to him when I had the chance, or better yet, not picked it up at all, this dilemma could have been avoided altogether.
I whip out my phone and search his name on Facebook. Pearce . . . Bryant? . . . Barrett? I forget his last name. Something with a ‘B’. “Ballinger” keeps flashing in my head, but I don’t think that’s it. I type it in anyway. It’s as close as I can remember.
I type B-A-L-L after ‘Pearce’, and automatically, the name Pearce Ballot pops up. Aha! This is him. The profile pic matches. I enter his page. He’s single, was born November 29th, and has over two thousand friends. Not that any of that matters, but fun facts never hurt.
I peck out a quick message that lets him know who I am. I also let him know that he dropped his journal by mistake, that I have it, and am willing to return it as soon as possible. I hit send. Now all I have to do is wait.
CHAPTER SIX
“Do you have a way home?” the nurse asks me as she hands me my discharge papers.
“Uh, yeah. My ride’s on his way.” I stick the papers on the inside of my coat.
“Okay, good. How’d you get here in the first place?”
“I drove.”
The nurse’s eyes inflate with shock. “Wha—?! With your hand like that?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s no big deal. Because to me, it isn’t. Sure, it hurt like hell, and my steering wheel is probably ruined forever, but getting here to the hospital was all that mattered.
“So how’re you gonna get your car back home?” she asks.
“I’m gonna have to leave it here overnight,” I say. “There’s no one I can call to come get it.”
“No one?”
“No one,” I confirm. “Unless you want it. It’s a 2017 black Rolls Royce.”
At first, she gapes at me in astonishment that I would just offer her a luxury car on a whim like that. But then a smile gradually cracks on her face. She gets that I’m being facetious now.
“Fork over the keys and the title, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she jokes.
I laugh. “But no, seriously, someone’s on their way to get the car. It�
�s in good hands, I promise.”
“Good. As long as it is. Well, Mr. Ballot, you take it easy, and please have a good rest of your night.”
“Thanks, Cheryl. I sure will. You too.”
We part ways and I head for the front entrance. I see a black Escalade turn into the lot. My ride. Elton, my driver, pulls up under the canopy at the exact time I exit the building, as if on cue. He hops out and opens the back door for me.
“Sir.” He bows his head courteously and holds the door as I get in.
“Thanks, Elton.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
We hit the road. I check my phone for any missed calls, texts and the like. I have one Facebook message. To my surprise, it’s Wendie Myers. My insides become hollow.
The message reads:
Hi Pearce, this is Wendie, the girl who was sitting next to you in the ER… I have your journal. You dropped it when they called you to the back. It’s in safe hands. We can meet up so I can give it to you. Any time is fine by me. What works for you??
Attached to the message is a photo of the journal for proof. I think this is really her. I’m relieved, but also inwardly stirring with embarrassment at the thought that she might have read what’s inside.
I reply:
Hey Wendie… thanks so much for holding on to it for me. Really appreciate you. Let’s meet at the Pine Pit in midtown to make the exchange.. How about tomorrow afternoon, around 4 or so. Sound good?
I see her typing…
Sounds good. See you tmrrw..
The funny thing is, technically, it’s already tomorrow. It’s 2:39 in the AM. About thirteen more hours until I get the journal back. The appointment could not come fast enough.
The following afternoon . . .
I’m indulging in a whiskey sour when I glance at the door and see Wendie walk into the Pine Pit. Instantly, I feel jitters in my gut. She cranes her neck and looks around for me. I throw my hand in the air and wave to help her out. Her eyes light up once they land in my direction. She smiles and makes her way through the pre-happy hour crowd to get to me. I’m sitting toward the back of the bar.
She walks up and immediately, I notice two conflicting expressions existing on her face at once; one looks happy to see me, the other looks afraid. I can only imagine what’s swimming through her head right now.
