Page 4 of Haunted

Spinning around to get a look at what had taken me down, I was stunned to see a body crumpled on the ground.

“Ah, shit. I gotta go.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, I ended the call while moving cautiously toward the figure. A woman—probably around twenty-two or twenty-three—was lying with her back against the side of the building, her legs outstretched in front of her. The lamppost on the corner shed enough light I could tell the medium-length hair, which framed her face like a curtain, was a lighter brown.

“Miss? Can you hear me?”

No response.

Crouching down, I used two fingers to check for a pulse on her neck, breathing a sigh of relief when I felt the fast steady beats. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin, which considering it was probably close to fifty degrees outside and given the fact she still hadn’t woken up, led me to one conclusion.

“Overdose,” I muttered to myself as I dialed 911 and gave them our location.

Drug use was running rampant all over the country and with how close we were to the campus of Marshall University; it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Yet, it did. Maybe I was also a tad disappointed because the woman lying on the sidewalk—albeit unconscious—was gorgeous from what I could tell.

Jesus, Keaton. Way to be a perv.

Sirens sounded in the distance and within a few minutes an ambulance pulled up to the curb. Two people—a heavy-set man and a petite female—exited the vehicle, both carrying blue bags over their shoulders and moving rapidly to the young woman’s side.

“What do we have?” the male EMT asked.

“Agent Clarke. FBI. I’m assuming overdose. I tripped over her legs when I came around the corner.”

“Narcan is in,” the other EMT stated as she tossed the white plastic nasal inhaler—used to administer the lifesaving drug—to the ground and began to cut the sleeves of the woman’s shirt. “Shit. Not an overdose, she’s diabetic. Bob, check her finger stick while I start a line.”

“Wait,” I interjected. “How do you know?”

She pointed to the silver chain situated on the girl's left wrist. “Medical alert bracelet. Make yourself useful, FBI,and go through her purse. See if she’s got any identification on her.”

Purse?

Backing up a few steps to get out of their way, I spotted a small pink crossbody which had definitely seen better days.

Phenomenal observation skills, Agent. First the mistaken overdose, then you miss a purse lying right next to her?

Reaching down, I snagged the bag and began rifling through the contents. Car keys, a tube of Chapstick, one of those cheap pay-as-you-go phones, then finally a small black wallet at the bottom.

“Her name is Henley Graves,” I announced, pulling her license from behind the plastic covering before placing the wallet back in the bag.

“I’m getting a critical low reading here, Amber. We need to get moving.”

“Grab the stretcher and some D50 from the rig while I finish getting her hooked up.”

“D50?” My heart rate ticked up a few notches. I didn’t know this woman from Adam, yet somehow, I felt responsible for her. No, not responsible…guilty was a more accurate term. I’d made assumptions—inaccurate assumptions—and it may cost this young woman her life.

“Fifty-percent dextrose. Basically, high concentrations of sugar water,” the medic, Amber, spoke while she placed white square sticky pads on Henley’s now-bare chest.

The threadbare off-white bra she wore barely concealed her breasts and when Bob returned with their equipment, the overwhelming desire to protect this woman almost had me removing my own shirt to cover her up.

Fuck. I was an asshole.

They worked as a team to lift her onto the stretcher,then took off toward the ambulance without another word. I followed, but as soon as I tossed her purse inside, the doors slammed shut and I was left standing on the sidewalk with her license held firmly in my grasp.

Henley

I felt like shit.

Correction. I’m fairly certain shit would be an upgrade to my current situation. Everything hurt. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know I’d somehow ended up in the hospital. Even without the constant beeping of the heart monitor and the sting of the IV in my hand, the harsh chemical smell from the cleaners they used were a dead giveaway. I’d spent enough time in them over the years, between my diabetes and mom’s “accidents,” to know the sounds and scents by heart. The question was, how the hell did I get here?

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