Page 72 of Raise Hell

“Look, Charity. I really need those records now, not in however long two business months happens to be. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get them.” I slide the watch off my wrist. It’s one of the few things Olivia owned that actually complemented my wardrobe. The phoenix made of inset diamonds on the front spoke to me, for reasons that should be more than obvious. I set it carefully down on the counter, careful not to scratch the crystal face. “This is Cartier. You should be able to get at least five grand for it, twice that if you sell it online instead of going to a pawnshop.”

“I don’t want some shit you stole.”

“It’s not stolen. Take a look. The inscription inside matches the name on my ID.”

Charity just stares at me for a long moment, finally losing interest in her stupid game. Her eyes cut from one end of the hallway to the other before she picks up the watch and examines it. “What about that necklace you’re wearing?”

Is this a hospital or a damn swap meet?

“Fine,” I say, pulling it off. My necklace is cubic zirconia costume fakery, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Print the records first.”

After I hand her Olivia’s ID, it takes approximately five seconds for her to input the information before her printer chugs to life.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter as the printed pages fly into the tray.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” The paper is still warm when she hands it to me. “Enjoy your jewelry.”

Hopefully, Olivia will forgive me for giving away her watch when she wakes up.

If she wakes up.

I can’t wait until I get home to read the report. I’m already thumbing through it when the automatic doors swoosh open. A nearby bench is as good a place as any to park myself while I skim for the important details.

The first few pages are the emergency room records, and I skim through those. The last thing I want is more details about my sister’s broken ribs, cracked pelvis, and missing teeth. I’m about to turn the page to the notes from the ICU when something stops me.

When my sister was initially brought to the ER, the doctors ordered a full panel of tests which apparently included a drug tox screen. I don’t recognize the names of all the substances they tested for, but enough of them stand out to me.

Alcohol. Barbiturates. Opiates. Benzodiazepines.

Olivia had enough drugs in her system to take down a full-grown rhinoceros. Her reaction to the drugs might account as much for her falling into a coma as her injuries did.

My sister didn’t do drugs. While I was sneaking sips of vodka out of the liquor cabinet as a kid, she would confess to eating cookies out of the pantry unprompted if our nanny looked at her funny. She spent her whole life playing it safe, doing exactly what was expected of her at all times.

Someone had to have drugged her.

* * *

My next stopis the local police department.

I’ve tried calling them at least a dozen times since I arrived at St. Bart’s, but it’s been impossible to get anyone to help me over the phone. Whoever answers usually acts like they have no idea what I’m asking for. Or I get transferred around a bunch of times before I inevitably end up leaving a voicemail for someone who never calls me back.

I’d like to think that the difficulty comes from it being a small-town police department without a lot of resources. But I can’t help but wonder if something more sinister is going on.

And there is only one way to find out.

My hoodie is pulled low over my face, practically at the level of my eyebrows, so all of my hair is hidden. Heavy black liner makes my eyes look smaller. I’m wearing a pair of cheap contact lenses I got from a novelty store that turn the blue into a strangely muddy brown. Purple lipstick, so dark it is nearly black, completes the look.

Preppy princess turned Goth chick who uses a heavy hand when she wings her eyeliner.

I want to look as little like Olivia Pratt as possible, without putting on an obvious disguise. Nobody would expect her to show up looking like a reject from the Addams family. Anyone who tries to remember encountering me later will hopefully be too focused on the makeup to remember what I actually look like.

The nearest airport is over an hour away, and Drumville is barely large enough to have a bus station. I’m not expecting their police department to have the resources of a major metro area, but I’m still surprised to see how small the building is.

A burly police officer sits at a desk in the lobby when I walk into the station. He greets me with a warm smile as I push open the doors and step into the chilly blast of air-conditioning. The nametag on his uniform reads Officer McCarthy.

“Can I help you?”

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