Page 32 of Lock Every Door

“Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Noon on the dot,” Ingrid says. “Be there or be square.”

I give her a wave and take a few steps down the hall. Ingrid doesn’t wave back. Instead, she stares at me a second longer, her smile fading to a grim flat line just before she closes the door.

At this point, there’s nothing left for me to do. If Ingrid says she’s fine, then I need to believe her. If she says I didn’t hear a scream, then I have to believe that, too. But as I climb two sets of steps—one to the twelfth floor, the other to the bedroom of 12A—I can’t shake the feeling that Ingrid was lying.

NOW

Bernard leaves.

A doctor enters.

He’s older. Snowy hair and strong jaw and tiny glasses perched in front of hazel eyes.

“Hello there. I’m Dr. Wagner.” He pronounces it the German way, with a V instead of a W. All his words, in fact, are thickened by an accent that’s at once rough and charming. “How are you feeling?”

I don’t know enough about how I’m supposed to feel to give a proper answer. I vaguely remember being told I was hit by a car, which I guess should make me feel lucky I’m not dead.

“My head hurts,” I say.

“I imagine it does,” Dr. Wagner tells me. “You banged it up pretty good. But there’s no concussion, which is fortunate.”

I touch the bandage on my head again. Lightly this time. Just enough to feel the contour of my skull beneath the fabric.

“Your vitals are good, though. That’s the most important thing,” Dr. Wagner says. “You’ll see some bruising from your thigh to your rib cage. But there are no broken bones, no internal damage. All things considered, it could have been much worse.”

I try to nod, the motion stymied by the neck brace. It’s heavy and hot. Patches of sweat have formed around my collarbone. I slide a finger behind the brace, trying to wick away some of the sweat.

“You’ll be able to take that off in a little while,” Dr. Wagner says. “It’s really just a precaution. But for now, I need to ask you a few questions.”

Isay nothing. I’m not sure I’ll be able to answerthem. I’m not sure the doctor will believe me if I do. Still, I attempt another neck-brace shortened nod.

“How much do you remember about the accident?”

“Not much,” I say.

“But youdoremember it?”

“Yes.”

At least, I think I do. I recall nothing concrete. Just snippets. I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. But they’re an unruly, unreliable bunch. My skull feels like a snow globe recently shaken, swirling with important bits of information that have yet to land. And I can’t grasp one, no matter how much I try.

I recall a screech of tires.

A blast of car horn.

A panicked yelp from somewhere behind me.

Pain. Darkness.

It’s the same with my arrival in the hospital. I remember half of it. Bernard and his bright scrubs and being told the unfortunate news about the car. But I can’t recall how I got here or what, exactly, I said when I arrived.

I chalk it up to painkillers. They’ve made me light-headed.

“Let’s try another question,” Dr. Wagner says. “A witness said he saw you burst out of the Bartholomew and run right into oncoming traffic. He said you didn’t stop. Not even for a second.”

That I remember.

---