Page 3 of Twisted Vows

“The police are on the way,” he says.

I turn to him.

“Give them a timeline and a rundown of injuries, but no physical descriptions or identifying information.”

He purses his lips as he studies the room.

“That’s probably smart, huh? Should you be cleaning? Isn’t this a crime scene?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“You don’t want to get involved with men like him, Dr. Tyler. Even if the cops take evidence, it’ll all disappear. I’d rather be ready for the next patient,” I say with a shrug.

He doesn’t pester me further, retreating to the front desk instead.

When the police arrive a whopping twenty minutes later, I give a brief statement, omitting every detail possible. The cops don’t question me further, since calls like this happen fairly often in this area.

New York City is perfect for anonymity, but not for safety.

I finish my shift and clock out as soon as the next nurse clocks in. She gives my shoulder a squeeze before settling behind the front desk.

I head to the on-call room, take a quick shower, and change into street clothes before shuffling out into the smoggy morning air. The sun barely lightens the sky above the towering buildings.

Despite my exhaustion, I stay aware of my surroundings as I weave through the streets to the subway station. The city never sleeps. Energy buzzes in the air as the homeless prepare for the morning rush hour.

I scan my subway card and wait under the brightest light until my train squeals into the station, then sit as close to the door as I can. Several stops later, I exit and continue up the steps as the first wave of nine-to-fivers rush into the tunnel.

With a healthy dose of paranoia, I check behind my reflection in every window I pass and wait until the sidewalk is clear before I unlock the front door to my building. My legs ache, but I take the stairs to the third floor before getting on the elevator to ride the rest of the way up to my apartment.

Some days, I get straight on. Other days, I walk up to a higher floor before using the elevator. Random is the name of the game.

I don’t dawdle in the hallway. No matter how nice the security may be, I hate the transition from the elevator to my apartment, so I give a quick check of my surroundings before slipping inside.

I drop my bag on the chipped laminate counter and kick my shoes into the organizer before I stumble across the room. My sister’s bag sits on the faded couch and soft classical music seeps out from under her door, so she must be getting ready for her morning classes. I unlock my screen and check my alarm before plugging in my phone and dropping it on my bedside table. I fall onto my bed.

Exhaustion pulls me into a dark, dreamless sleep.

I jerk awake when a hand settles onto my shoulder.

“Mia sorella, get up. Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.”

Warmth gushes down my face as I sit up. I curse and pinch the bridge of my nose. Katherine presses a wad of toilet paper to my face. After a few futile swipes, she pats my leg, rushes to the bathroom, and returns with a damp washcloth.

After she cleans the blood off my face, I thank her and take a fresh wad of tissue from her.

“Are you headed to class?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“No, I just got back. I only had one today, and my shift doesn’t start for another hour, so I came home to drop off my books. Your door was open. I could see the blood from the kitchen. What happened?”

She’s too sweet. A lump clogs my throat and the urge to tell her about my night barrels through me, but I shake my head, careful not to dislodge my fingers from my nose, and offer her a lopsided smile.

“I’m okay. It’s probably just from the long hours. I’ll try to get day shifts next rotation,” I say.

She knows it’s a lie. As kids, we called my nosebleeds our warning system, like they foreshadowed the omens in our future, but now that we’re older, we don’t dare joke about them. They’ve warned us of too many catastrophic events already.

“You’d better move to day shifts and stop working overtime. I rarely see you nowadays. You know I can’t live without you, right?”

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