Page 48 of The Girl and the Lies

“I’ll be there,” I tell her.

I hang up and rush into the guest bedroom to change clothes. The drive to the hospital feels long as my mind churns with possibilities of what happened to Marshall. He’s obviously still alive, but I don’t know the extent of what he went through and the injuries he’s sustained. But I also have hope that he’ll be able to tell me what happened and who did this to him.

When I get to the hospital, I go in through the emergency room entrance and find Carla in the waiting area with two police officers. She immediately hops up from her chair and runs over to me.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I should have been there,” she says. “I was supposed to be home tonight, and I wasn’t.”

I take her by her shoulders and squeeze her gently to try to get her to focus. I look into her eyes. “Carla, look at me. I need you to tell me exactly what happened,” I say. “Where were you tonight?”

“I was supposed to be home tonight,” she repeats. “But I’m on the planning committee for a charity organization I volunteer with, and there were some problems with an upcoming event that I’m chairing. One of the other ladies called me in a panic because she didn’t know what to do to fix the issues, and she wanted me to come and help her. I almost didn’t go because it was already getting late when she called, but the organization is really important to me, and this is the first event that I’ve headed up, so I want to do a good job and make it the best event it can be.

“Marshall and I were trying to catch up on a show we’ve been watching, and I told him not to watch ahead without me, that I wouldn’t be too long. I left, went, and handled the issues, and then went back to the house. When I got there, there were police cars and an ambulance in front of the house. They didn’t want to let me inside. I finally convinced them to let me in, and they told me that Marshall had been attacked and was unconscious. They were working on him in the bedroom when I got in there. They say he was beaten but managed to get away from the attacker and get to the bedroom.”

The police officers come over and introduce themselves as Officers Massengill and Trammel. I tell them who I am, and they nod their understanding.

“Can you tell me more about what happened tonight?” I ask.

“A call came into dispatch from the Powell residence reporting an intruder. Mr. Powell said that he was being attacked and needed help. The dispatcher heard someone in the background call out for Mrs. Powell, and then the line went dead. Police and an ambulance responded within three minutes and broke through the front door into the house. There was no response to calling for Mr. Powell, and the team found the bedroom door locked. We knocked and announced ourselves, but there was no answer, so we breached the door and went inside. That’s when we found Mr. Powell unconscious and bleeding. Mrs. Powell arrived almost immediately after,” Officer Massengill says with clinical precision. I can almost imagine the words written out on his paperwork.

“Was there any weapon found at the scene?” I ask.

“No,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“You said that someone was shouting for Carla in the background of the call?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Dispatch reported that there was a voice shouting out the name ‘Carla’ and that it was not the person on the phone.”

I look at Carla, who looks shocked and rattled by the revelation.

“Who knew you weren’t going to be home tonight?” I ask.

“No one except the people at the event,” she says. “And Marshall.”

“You park in your garage, right?” I ask, remembering parking in the empty driveway when I visited their house.

“Yes,” she says.

“So if someone came to the house, they wouldn’t immediately know that you weren’t there,” I say.

“Not if the garage doors were closed, which they were,” she says. Her eyes go wide, and what little color was left in her face drains away. “They were coming for me. Just like Sabrina. They weren’t there for Marshall, they were there for me.”

Her body starts to shake, and I put an arm around her to lead her over to the nearby chairs. I help her sit down and sit beside her. Carla leans forward so her head is between her knees and draws in a few deep breaths. I can feel her still trembling and struggling to get the air in.

“Sit tight,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I go to the bathroom and get a paper towel. Soaking it with cold water, I bring it back and rest it on the back of Carla’s neck.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

She shakes her head and sits up. “No, I’m sorry… I’m fine.”

“Have you heard anything about Marshall’s condition?” I ask.

“No,” Carla says. “They just brought him back, and I’ve been waiting for someone to come out and tell me something.”

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