Page 120 of Quiet Beautiful Things

The nurse talks to someone in the corner then leaves.

It’s Blake. He’s the someone in the corner.

I look around frantically. I’m in a bad dream. I can’t sign.

Blake rushes over, grinning with all his teeth. “Hey.” The relief on his face is palpable. And the bags under his eyes tell me he’s probably been sitting in that chair for a very long time.

I look from his eyes to my hands then back at him.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. You’ll have to wear the bandages for about a week, but the doctors think you’ll heal up just fine.”

I look at him in confusion. Why am I here? And after the way I left him, why ishehere? And what the hell happened to my hands?

“Ellie, do you remember anything?”

When I don’t answer, because I still feel as if this is a dream, he pulls a chair over, signing what he can but also speaking. “You’ve been in and out of it all night. The pain medication haskept you asleep mostly. The doctor came in earlier but said you might not remember.”

I shake my head, hoping to wake up, but then the pain around my temple throbs.

“You hit your head. It’s not bad. No concussion.” He fingerspellsconcussion.

Though it hurts, I lift up a bandaged hand and tap it to my head then my chin. He immediately understands.

“Your parents have been here all night too. Once you woke up and they knew you’d be okay, they went to help Tara. I guess she and your mom have a lot in common.”

As soon as the words come off his lips, everything comes rushing back. Grant bursting into my apartment. Threatening Tara. Holding us at gunpoint. Pouring hot coffee all over my hands. I lean over the side of the bed and vomit. Not much comes out. My head pounds again.

“It’s okay,” he signs then holds a cup of water with a straw near my lips. “You’re going to be fine.”

Reluctantly, I drink, but only because my throat feels like sandpaper.

Now that I’ve concluded this isn’t a dream, I wonder how any of this can be okay with Grant still out there? And how are my parents helping Tara?

I go to ask him, but the bandages and the dull ache remind me I can’t.

“You have questions,” he says. “I’m here to answer all of them. I was there. And once you’re not so drugged, the police will want to interview you.”

The tip of my right middle finger sticks out of the bandage. I wiggle it at him.

“Why was I there?” he asks.

I nod.

“I came for you, Ellie. I wasn’t about to leave things the way we did. When I got there, I heard screaming. I burst into your apartment and Grant shot me.”

My eyes widen, searching his body for injuries. He stands and opens a slit in his jeans, showing a bandage. “Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch.”

I shake my head, terrified. Grant shot him? And he’s still out there? I look to the door.

He waves a hand to get my attention. “You don’t have to be scared. He’s gone. After I broke down your door, he and I tussled, the gun he was holding came loose, and Tara got hold of it and shot him. Grant is dead, Ellie. Tara saved us. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

He’s dead. Grant is dead. He shot Blake and mutilated me. But now it’s over.

I close my eyes and blow out a long, relieved breath.

He puts a gentle hand on my arm, and I look up at him. “What were you thinking trying to help Tara without telling anyone?”

I look down at the covers.

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