Page 16 of Wicked Promises
No matter what dark hole you go down, I will find you and bring you back. Isn’t that what he promised me?
He kept that promise. He found me.
I have to keep mine.
I glare at the arrogance of this man who thinks he has everything figured out. “It wasn’t him, Detective. I know him. I know hisvoice. The person who dragged me out of the car talkedto me before he pressed a cloth to my face. I’d know Caleb’s voice anywhere—and it wasn’t him.”
He narrows his eyes.
I focus on Ms. McCaw. “Can you get a nurse? I have to use the restroom.”
She nods and ducks out. The detective and I lock into a staring contest until she and a nurse return.
The latter takes one look at me and faces Detective Masters. “I think she’s had enough for today.”
After a long moment, the detective nods and exits the room.
The nurse flips the blankets off my legs. She quickly disconnects the wires that monitor my heart, and the long cord attached to my IV port taped to the back of my hand. I swing my legs over and touch my socked feet to the cool tile, and she helps me stand.
“Slowly now.”
I’m as wobbly as a newborn deer. The room slants and spins. We pause, allowing me to close my eyes for a second.
“Head injuries do nasty things to our balance,” the nurse murmurs.
I heave a sigh. I really do need to pee—but I could also use a moment alone. Thankfully, the nurse agrees to my request for privacy. She tells me to ring the bell when I’m done and closes the door.
I hover by it, listening as hard as I can.
It’s quiet, and then, “He really carried her in here?” That from Ms. McCaw.
My heart picks up speed.
“Her arms and legs were still duct taped,” the nurse says. “Although the detective didn’t see how distraught he was.”
Caleb.My heart gives an extra kick.
I focus on my wrists. The skin is red and angry. There are little abrasions around where the tape must’ve pulled as they removed it.
I scratch at my wrist and groan at the slice of pain.
“You okay, Margo?” The nurse’s voice is jarringly loud through the door.
I sit on the toilet and reply, “Yep, almost done.”
When I’m finished, I scrub my hands under hot water until they match my wrists. Stinging and pink. I rip open the package on the sink counter—a toothbrush and little squeeze tube of toothpaste.
My mouth feels a thousand times better with a minty freshness.
Then, slowly, I cast a glance at myself in the mirror. I’ve avoided it until now, afraid of what I was going to find.
There’s a wound on my head that’s been bandaged—and presumably stitched underneath. Various scrapes across my face. A bruise on my temple, coming down onto my cheek, and the skin around my eyes is puffy. If I had more time, I’d do a more thorough examination. I imagine my ankles, hidden under the thick socks, are in the same sort of shape as my wrists. Unless they went over my pants…
I take a breath. My ribs don’t hurt as much as they did when Ian kicked me, but there’s still a deep ache. My hair is a wild mess. I finger-comb it as best as possible, but it really needs washing to tame it.
Enough stalling. I open the door and smile at the nurse.
“You’re supposed to ring the bell,” she admonishes.