Page 33 of Reckoning

This voice is higher, a woman’s, and she’s closer to me.

“No, you know that, Rose.”

I try to sit up, I try to move but my body won’t respond.

“Her blood alcohol level was through the roof.” Ben states.

“She doesn’t drink.” Roman replies.

“So, how do you explain this?”

I hold my breath, waiting for the words, for him to admit that he can’t, that obviously I’ve gone on a binge again, that I’ve gotten so drunk I’ve caused an accident of sorts. That I’m out of control. That I need help, real help.

Someone takes my hand, my adrenaline spikes at the sudden skin to skin contact and the machine starts beeping more and more rapidly.

“Sofia will wake soon enough.” Roman says and I realise it’s him, he’s holding my hand. “She’ll tell us what she knows.”

“Roman,” Ben begins.

My brother snarls, and whatever he does, however he moves, it causes his arm to jerk and my own with it. “You didn’t see it, you didn’t see the look of betrayal on her face, the hurt too.”

“When?”

“Last time we were here. Last time the doctor suggested she’d made it all up.” Roman states.

I don’t hear the reply. I don’t hear anything. That darkness takes me again and I fall into it, waiting, dreaming, seeing flashes of memories that make no sense whatsoever.

* * *

I wake with a groan.Relief floods through me as I realise I can move, I can sit up. I’m no longer trapped.

“Easy,” Roman murmurs and I blink staring at him.

He looks dishevelled. His hair is messy, his clothes have creases from where he’s been leaning on them and his eyes have bags under them like he didn’t get much sleep, like he’s been keeping watch.

My eyes dart to the door. I know I’m in the hospital. I know something happened. I just can’t quite connect all the dots in my head.

“Can I have some water?” I ask quietly.

Roman stands, crosses the room to where the trolley is and pours one out. I clasp the plastic cup with both hands and gulp down the contents. My head still hurts but it’s a dull ache now, the kind of hangover you get on the second day.

“How are you feeling?” He asks gently.

“Off.” I reply.

He sinks back into the blue, spongey looking chair and crosses his leg, placing his ankle on his knee. “Tell me what happened.”

I gulp, staring at the now empty cup. “I don’t remember.”

“None of it?”

I can hear the tone, just enough, just a little edge to give away how close to losing control he really is.

“I only remember leaving the therapist’s office, coming down the stairs. Someone was there, waiting for me. They jumped me, they jabbed me with a needle and then there’s nothing.”

He narrows his eyes, studying my face as if he expects to see a different truth written there. “So you don’t remember going to a garage and buying a Ferrari?”

“What?” I frown. Why the fuck would I do that? I can technically drive, I have a licence, I just never saw the point when my father always had men to drive us around.

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