Page 3 of Control

Hours later, I’d reviewed everything, and while some of what I’d evaluated in Yasmine’s notes was self-explanatory, there were other things that left me with questions. Plus, Yasmine seemed to enjoy doodling in her notes, little pictures or symbols there, and I got distracted looking at all of them.

I intended to focus and get it all figured out, to at least get myself to a similar understanding of the case as Yasmine had, and I was prepared to get started immediately.

But before I did anything, I was going to go to the hospital. It just didn’t feel right to take over for Yasmine without going to see her first.

I gathered up my things, Yasmine’s files, and scurried out of the news station.

While I was aware that my friend and coworker was in a coma, I really hadn’t prepared for what it would be like to see her in such a state.

I made it to the floor she was on at Steel Ridge General Hospital and was confident I’d be able to handle a short visit. But I’d barely stepped into the doorway when my body froze. The sight of Yasmine in that bed, completely unrecognizable, had me feeling a mix of complete horror and overwhelming gloom.

My body shuddered, my mouth falling open. I lifted my hand to my mouth, my fingertips pressing lightly against my lips.

What had they done to her?

An uncomfortable pressure built in my chest, forcing me to realize I’d stopped breathing. I remained on the spot until I regained control of my breathing, slow and steady.

Then, with a pace that matched my inhales and exhales, I moved toward the bed. Her body was covered—in bandages and the tubes connected to machines leading to different parts of her body.

Staring at her in the bed, recalling that note I’d held in my hand not thirty minutes after I’d learned about what happened to her, one question came to mind. What if she’d told me about it?

It wasn’t uncommon for us to discuss the stories we were working on. Maybe if she’d given me some indication that things had spiraled a bit for her, the two of us could have come together and formulated a plan.

I could have done something to help prevent this. It seemed impossible she’d be able to survive.

The sound of a shoe scuffing against the floor near the open door to Yasmine’s room pulled my attention in that direction.

“Alana?”

I could have burst into tears on the spot. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I’m so, so sorry about this.”

Yasmine’s mom pressed her trembling lips together and offered a slight nod of appreciation. Her features were pinched, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Her eyes slid to her daughter’s lifeless body, and her legs faltered. I moved toward her, grabbed hold of her arm, and led her to the chair beside Yasmine’s bed. Once she was seated, she rasped, “It’s bad, Alana. She’s just barely hanging on. They had to intubate and sedate her. She has a horrible chest injury.”

My heart was breaking. Keeping one of Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s hands in mine, I stroked over the back of it and tried to reassure her. “Yasmine’s a fighter. She’s going to get through this.”

“I need her back. Her dad and I need her back.”

“You’ll get her back,” I promised, unsure if I’d live to regret doing something so bold when I had my own doubts about Yasmine’s ability to pull through.

Her fingers twitched in my hold, her gaze returning to her daughter. We stayed like that for a few minutes, neither of us saying a word.

And in those moments of tense silence, I felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily on my shoulders. Someone needed to uncover the truth about what had happened to Yasmine. Someone needed to give Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her husband hope. I couldn’t imagine they’d ever sleep again knowing the people responsible for doing this to their daughter were roaming around free.

Angry tears rolled down my face as my heart hammered. In that moment, something came over me.

Hatred for the people who’d done this, of course. But it was more than that. I was suddenly aware of what peopleexperienced when they sought vengeance. This hit close to home; this was my friend.

It could have been me.

And if it had been, I knew Yasmine wouldn’t have sat back and done nothing.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” I called gently.

She lifted her gaze to mine. “Yes?”

“I’m going to figure out how this happened,” I declared. “I’m going to find the people responsible for doing this to her.”

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