Page 2 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“For sleepwalking. I can’t remember the name.”

“That might explain the drugs we found in your system.”

“What drugs?”

“A sedative.”

“I don’t take anything other than the pills to hold off the sleepwalking.”

“Okay.” He regards me and then says, “The head scan tells me you suffered no damage to your brain or spine, which is excellent news. ButI’d like to do an MRI of your left hip. X-rays tell me it’s not broken, but I suspect you’ve torn muscles or tendons, or maybe separated the labrum.”

My head is good. A win. “What’s a labrum?”

Dr.Jackson tucks his penlight in his front pocket and runs calloused hands up and down my neck. I brace. “It’s the cartilage cushioning the hip joint. Any pain in the neck?”

“A little stiff, but okay.” I angle my neck away from him and feel the muscles resisting. “The hip aches.”

Dr.Jackson nods. “Then we should do the MRI.”

I look around the curtained-off emergency room cubicle. How much is all this going to cost me? “MRIs are expensive.”

“Clear images give me a good look inside your body. You don’t want to risk more damage.”

As I shift, the back folds of my hospital gown open, and a cold breeze fingers up my spine. I can live with a stiff hip, which in all likelihood just needs rest. “My head is good, right?”

Dr.Jackson sighs. “Yes. But the hip correlates with long-term mobility.”

“I’ll rest it. See how it goes. If it’s an issue, I’ll call you. When can I leave the hospital? I’ll take it easy. Take aspirin. Ice, heat, ice. Chill out.” This place is suffocating, and I want to go home, where I’ll try not to think about the fall, the sound of Kyle’s head exploding, or sticky, warm blood.

Dr.Jackson shakes his head. “I’d like to admit you overnight for observation.”

“No,” I insist. “I’d rather be in my own bed. It’s paid for.”

His brow furrows. “Do you have insurance?”

“I do if you can call it that. My plan is stitched together with high copays and ridiculous deductibles. I’ll take a pass on the tests and the overnight.”

“I don’t advise this, Ms.McCord,” Dr.Jackson says carefully.

“I get it. Liability. Lawyers. I’ll sign whatever I need to.” I shift, wince. Seven hours ago, Kyle and I were driving up the beach toward his house. The day was warm, the sun bright, and the ocean calm. I was nervous, in an excited kind of way.

Now Kyle’s blood smears my arm. “Are you sure about Kyle?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “What do you remember?”

“Arriving at the cottage.” It’s a stunning place and unexpectedly elegant on such a remote stretch of beach. Vaulted ceilings, large plush couches, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dunes and ocean, white granite kitchen counters, dazzling stainless-steel appliances, and modern art on the walls. Fresh red roses filled a crystal vase on the living room coffee table. I remember almost teasing it was a no-one-can-hear-you-scream kind of place but thinking better of the joke. My dark sense of humor is best reserved for people who’ve known me more than three and a half weeks.

“The EMTs responded to the house at one fifteen p.m. today. When did you arrive at the cottage?”

“About noon. I don’t remember much after we arrived.”

Doubts crease his brow. “It’s okay. Those memories should come back in time.”

I know better than anyone, the power of positive thinking is faulty at best. “I want to leave. Where are my clothes, purse, and phone?”

“I really would like you to stay overnight for observation.”

“No.” Panic constricts my chest. “I hate hospitals.”

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