Page 102 of Raise Hell

Twenty

When I was a kid,a teacher once told my parents that I have a photographic memory.

I never really understood what that meant, but it always seems like things I find interesting stand out starkly in my mind. All I have to do is think about something interesting hard enough, and a mental image stands out so starkly that it’s almost the same as having it right in front of me.

The ability didn’t seem to do much for my grades, but that might be because I never saw the point of school. Memorization and regurgitation all for metaphorical pats on the head always felt like a waste of my time.

But let someone put in their pin at the ATM, and I’ll know the number just from hearing the distinctive sound each button makes.

I don’t bother to put program Drake’s name into my phone. Each time a message from him pops up on the screen, there is only a number where his name would otherwise be.

Hang this weekend? Let me know.

The number niggles at my brain, like I’m trying to remember a word I’ve forgotten.

Ur not getting away that easy.

It can’t be because I know it. There are only so many places I might have seen a phone number before.

If you don’t respond, I’ll just have to come find you.

When you stare at something long enough, it almost becomes unrecognizable. Your brain can only pay attention to one thing for so long before it short circuits.

Numbers twist and turn in my vision, taking on a strange shape of their own. They might as well be hieroglyphics or the indecipherable scrawls of a child just learning how to write.

Those numbers become a mental image I can transpose over my memory.

With the sudden speed of a light switching on in a dark room, I know where I’ve seen those numbers before.

As soon as the realization hits, I almost leave in the middle of my writing seminar. I spend the rest of class watching the clock as I practically vibrate with tension in my seat.

When the class ends, I’m the first one out of the door.

If anyone notices me running through campus like a crazy person, they don’t try to stop me.

Olivia’s records from the hospital are hidden underneath the liner of my wastebasket. Even if Anya gets into my room to snoop at some point, I doubt she’d lower herself to going through the trash.

The ER report from the hospital included an abbreviated note from the 911 dispatcher who notified the paramedics. The caller had refused to give their name, but the number they called from hadn’t been blocked to caller ID. Whoever created the report had included it.

Olivia had been abandoned in the middle of the woods. If no one had called 911, she would have died from her injuries by the time someone stumbled on her the next morning. Another hour or so and there wouldn’t have been anything left to save.

But someone called 911, a person who wanted to stay anonymous. Because when the paramedics arrived, she was alone.

The number had stuck out to me when I first read the report, because it seemed like an odd thing for the hospital to include in their report. I assumed a random student stumbled on her by accident. They were a decent enough human being to call 911, but likely too scared to stick around for the paramedics and police.

I’d thought about trying to call the number when I first saw it, but decided against it. If whoever it belonged to had already refused to come forward when the police requested witness statements, they likely wouldn’t tell me anything. The person who attacked her wouldn’t have called the police themselves. And the lazy local cops didn’t seem particularly interested in chasing them down as a lead, so I had let it go.

No one who wants to stay at St. Bart’s would ever tell the police anything, anyway.

Except this isn’t the phone number of a random good Samaritan.

Drake is the one who called that night.

Which means he saved Olivia’s life.

* * *

From the momentI first met Drake, I assumed we were enemies.

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