Page 93 of The Devil She Knows
On the path, a jogger approached, and Sam flapped her arms.
“We need help over here!” she shouted.
The jogger got on the phone with 911, who assured her help was on the way and would be there in less than four minutes.
Four minutes. Daphne could hold on that long. They, the paramedics, whoever, would stabilize her until they got her to the hospital.
“Sam,” Daphne whispered, teeth chattering like she was cold. “If I don’t get another chance to say it, I just really want you to know—”
“No.” She shook her head, tears escaping and blurring her vision. Sirens wailed and Sam had never heard a sound so sweet. She clenched her teeth together until her molars creaked. “You tell me later, okay? Daphne?”
The hand on her wrist had slackened, Daphne’s fingers releasing her.
“Daphne?” When Sam got no response, she shook her gently. “Daphne?”
Sam bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and checked her for a pulse. Thready and weak, but it was there.
“Yeah, she’s over here,” Sam heard someone say, and the EMTs were there then, asking her to please step aside andgive them room and did she know what happened? Did she know the cause of the injuries or how recently they had been sustained and was the patient on any medications that she was aware of? Did she have any allergies?
Sam shook her head at all the questions, questions she didn’t have answers to, questions she couldn’t answer truthfully.
I found her like this, she lied,she told me her name is Daphne, and no one asked her any more questions. It also meant Sam couldn’t ask to ride with her to the emergency room.
“Which hospital are you taking her to?”
“Mount Sinai,” one of the EMTs replied as they loaded Daphne into the ambulance. “Morningside Heights.”
They sped off, the wail of the sirens fading into the distance.
One foot after the other, Sam followed.
20
THE WAITING ROOM smelled sharp and biting, like iodine and bleach, and it tickled the back of Sam’s throat. Each time she coughed, the man and woman sharing the waiting room would look up and stare blankly at her for several moments before turning back to the phones in their hands.
Hands.Sam had scrubbed hers raw, and still she hadn’t been able to get the blood out from under her nails. It stained her cuticles and there was a splotch on her wrist she’d missed, and she couldn’t help but feel like—like someone was taunting her.
There’s blood on your hands, Samantha Cooper, and don’t you forget it.
The double doors that led to the operating rooms of the hospital’s trauma unit swung open and Sam caught a glimpse of a doctor dressed in pale green scrubs. She was on her feet in a flash, making a beeline for him.
“Hi. Are you the doctor who operated on the woman who was brought in? Daphne?”
The nurses at the triage desk hadn’t been able to tell her much, only that the woman who’d arrived by ambulance had been taken to the OR.
The doctor nodded. “Yeah, I’m Dr. Linz. Are you family?”
“Mm-hmm.” Sam really hoped the EMTs weren’t still around to call her bluff.
“Okay, well, she’s up in recovery. Surgery went well. Daphne sustained a pneumothorax and a ruptured spleen that required a splenectomy. But she’s breathing on her own. She might not be awake for a bit, and she’ll definitely be groggy from the anesthesia and pain medicine for a while, but you can head on up to see her. Visiting hours are until six. And I know the nurses are going to need some information from you if you can provide it.”
A shuddering breath escaped her, and her vision blurred unexpectedly. Sam pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and nodded jerkily. “Okay. Thank you so much. Um.” She swallowed hard and tried to wrangle her racing thoughts. “Information, you said? I need to give the nurses?”
Dr. Linz hummed. “Basic medical history, insurance info if you have it handy. All we were given when she was brought in was her first name.”
Sam didn’t have any of that.Daphnedidn’t have any of that.
But that was fine. She’d—theywould cross that bridge later. What mattered was that she was okay. She was alive and in recovery and—she wasalive.
