Page 39 of Rooke
I turn around, searching for the source of the tinny voice coming out of the radio. A few feet away, a couple of cops are standing with their backs to us, talking quietly to each other, coffee cups in one hand, Philly cheese steaks in the other. They don’t even seem to notice that they’re broadcasting for everyone to hear.
“You think she’s making it up?”
“Nah. Captain said she was hysterical. Said she killed the guy and his body was out the back of the building. Eight guys searched the area, though. There was blood there for sure, but it could have been hers. They’re testing it now.”
“All right. Let me know when they’re taking her home. In the meantime, alert every single hospital in the city. If she thinks she hurt this guy, he might go looking for medical assistance.”
My mind is spinning uncontrollably. They’re talking about Sasha, of course. They have to be. And she thinks shekilledsomeone? Fuck me. I’m gutted. The thought of her having to defend herself to that extent? It makes me feel like I’m about to throw up. I’m shaking, filled with an instant boost of adrenaline. I’m about to say something to Jake, but he shakes his head, a firm, immoveable look on his face. “We’re not starting our own fucking manhunt, Rooke. No fucking way. We are going home.Now.”
I clench my teeth, hissing under my breath. The guy knows me. The guy knows me far too well.
No way I’m going home, though. No. Fucking. Way.
TWENTY
JACOBI
SASHA
“Cosmetic? It doesn’t feel cosmetic. It doesn’t look cosmetic, either.” What a strange way to describe the injuries I’ve sustained. Looking at myself in the small compact mirror the nurse is holding up in front of my face, I can’t seem to recognize the face staring back at me in the reflective surface. Swollen eye. Swollen nose. Split lip. Cuts on both cheekbones. The eyes are the same, though, those are definitely mine. They’re filled with fury and tears, stinging every time I blink.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Connor. You’ll heal up nicely in a week or two. After that, no one will ever know you were hurt.”
ButIwill. I look away from the compact, and she clips it shut, sliding it into the pocket of her scrubs. “Your ribs on the other hand? They’re going to take a little while longer to heal. You’re lucky. Nothing was broken, but you’re incredibly bruised. Moving around is going to be pretty painful for a while now. So no driving, no running, or anything like that. The meds you’ve been prescribed are strong as all hell. Don’t operate any heavy machinery, light aircraft, power tools—”
I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “I won’t be doing any of that. I don’t need the drugs.”
The nurse arches a skeptical eyebrow, pursing her lips. “Mmhmm. We’ll just see about that now. You’re feeling okay right now because you’re already doped up to the eyeballs. As soon as you get home and that morphine starts to wear off, you’re gonna be in a world of hurt.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’ll take your meds home with you and take them when you need to. And when you do—”
“No operating any space craft, school buses or forklifts. Got it.”
The nurse nods, placing an orange bottle of pills down on the small table beside my bed. “Good girl.”
“Are you done, nurse? We really need to finish our conversation with Ms. Connor.” A middle aged, grizzly detective stands in the doorway of the hospital room—Detective Jacobi. He was the one to question me when I first arrived at the hospital. They let him talk to me as I was being assessed, but when he got pushy they made him leave the room. He looks frustrated, like I’m purposefully avoiding answering his questions and he’s about ready to arrest me and take me down to the station. The nurse glances at me—a questioning look.
“You feel up to talking to these fools now? They aren’t gonna stop coming in here ‘til you’ve told them whatever you know, honey.”
“Yes, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Truth is, I want to explain what happened to the detective. I’ve been itching to finish answering his questions for the past three hours, but instead I’ve been poked and prodded, examined and re-examined, and I’m beginning to feel a little violated. Ormoreviolated, should I say. The nurse gestures the cop inside, and leaves, closing the door behind her.
Detective Jacobi’s face is marked with a thousand lines. I get the feeling he earned each one of them working stressful, thankless cases that have soured him against the general public as a whole. He looks at me with suspicion, if not open hostility. “Where were we, Ms. Connor?” he asks, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“You were in the middle of accusing me of slitting Amanda’s throat. You were implying that the death of my son might have finally caused me to have a nervous breakdown.” I say this calmly, though my veins are filled with fire. He blinks, then takes a small notebook from the pocket of his damp-looking jacket; it must be raining outside.
“I didn’t accuse you of anything, Sasha. I’m simply trying to record the facts. It’s my job to assess your mental state.”
“I thought it was the doctors’ jobs to assess my mental state,” I reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a trained psychologist.”
He huffs. “Why don’t we start from the beginning? You tell me everything that happened from the moment you arrived at the museum, and I’ll try not to say anything that might upset you. Deal?”
Right now I’m wondering where my sympathetic female police officer is. I’m wondering where my trauma therapist is. I’m wondering a lot of things. I’ve invested a lot of time in the CSI TV franchise; I’d never have thought this is how a situation like this would play out. Here I am though, being stared down by the most terse, unfriendly detective in New York.
I do what he wants. I tell him absolutely everything, from walking through the front door, to seeing the bastard in the ski mask for the first time, to smashing the hook into the side of his head and running for my life. I don’t leave anything out. I go into explicit detail. I try not to cry when he asks me if I was assaulted sexually. I tell him I don’t know, that I was unconscious for a length of time, and I have no idea what happened to me while I was out cold, and I feel an icy wash of terror settle deep inside me.
He asks more questions: my stockings were ripped in the feet, but were they ripped in between my legs? I tell him, no, I don’t think so. He asks if I’m sore anywhere other than my ribs and my leg. I say yes, I’m sore everywhere, because I am. My whole body is ringing like a struck bell. Even breathing hurts at this point. Down to my toes, I feel tender and compromised, entirely unlike myself. Shifting in my bed is a monstrous task that seems incomprehensible right now.
