Page 92 of Hide and Seek
I shake my head, still in disbelief. “What’s, uhhh, what kind of injuries are we talking about?”
“Harper suffered a great deal of internal bleeding. There was significant trauma to the liver and spleen, however they have both been taken care of. Externally, her injuries are consistent with being beaten. She will have significant bruising and swelling that will develop over the coming days and has received multiple stitches to the face. She’s in the clear, but it will be a rough road to recovery.”
“Beaten?” I ask, unable to believe how anyone could do this to her.
The doctor presses his lips into a tight line and nods, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “She’s being taken to recovery now,” he tells me. “You’re more than welcome to sit with her. It would be good to see a familiar face when she wakes. She will probably be quite upset and very sore and will have a lot to process.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“The receptionist can help you with a room and bed number,” he tells me before turning on his heel and walking straight back through the double doors.
After visiting the receptionist again, she gives me a room number, and within seconds, I’m making my way through the hospital, my desperation pushing me faster with every step. I need to see for myself what kind of hell she has suffered through.
I reach her room in no time, and as I step in beside her, my heart breaks.
Her lip is split and held together with stitches, and there’s significant bruising and swelling under her right eye. Her body is covered by a heavy blanket, but I don’t doubt that every inch of her skin mimics the bruising on her face.
Agony tears through my chest as I take the seat beside her bed, leaning forward and resting my arms on the shitty mattress, needing to be as close as humanly possible.
These past few weeks have made me feel as though I’m not good enough. That I don’t have what it takes to be the protector she needs, and this right here just proves that I was right. I should have pushed harder for her to stay in, to take time off work and spend it in my home with me. I have more than enough vacation days saved up. I would have taken the time off with her, but she’s so fucking stubborn. She insisted on going to work, and while I understand her reasoning, I can’t bring myself to justify it. Same goes with her staying at her place where that asshole was able to find her and put his hands on her. But I suppose the same could be said for my home. I thought she was safe there, but not even I can offer her freedom from that man.
As I sit beside her, I can’t help but go over everything that’s happened over these past few weeks. I don’t know if what happened today was somehow related to her stalker, but I don’t believe it is. A brutal attack like this doesn’t match thestalker’s profile. He doesn’t lose control and use his fists. He prefers to torment victims with blades while getting off. He’s possessive, calculated, and vile. Harper being jumped today was the opposite of his MO: messy and opportunistic.
The moment Harper wakes and can tell me any details about her attack, I’ll be looking into it, and I won’t stop until the asshole who hurt her has felt exactly what she felt.
As for everything else that’s been going down, I simply can’t wrap my head around it.
Everything that happens leaves me with more questions. The first victim Harper found in the morgue with her name carved into his knuckles was fucked up, but where the fuck is that body? How is it possible that not a single officer in Blackstone recalls collecting the body and delivering it to the morgue, and why the hell aren’t there records? That doesn’t just happen.
I was willing to look past it and leave it as one seriously fucked-up situation. But then he left two more bodies with messages carved into their skin. Is it a coincidence that those bodies also went missing? When I asked around at the station, nobody could recall a double homicide. Even Dr. McKullan reported that their injuries were consistent with a car wreck.
I don’t want to be the asshole who says this, but even Laith’s death. Where are the crime scene photos? Who found the body and called the cops? Which detective is taking lead on the case? Who delivered the body to the morgue?
This should all be easily answered, yet I can’t find a shred of information. Nobody knows what I’m talking about, and honestly, the more I ask my colleagues about cases nobody has heard of, the more I’m starting to sound paranoid.
Every single occasion that Harper has told me about has left me scratching my head. I don’t want to say that I don’t believe her because that would make me look like a fucking dick, and I can tell from her reaction to all of this, the fear, her tremblinghands, that this is as real as it gets. But where is this guy? Why hasn’t anybody but Harper seen him? She hasn’t even seen his face, only the mask.
At my place the other day, she swore there were ropes, and still, two days later, I still haven’t found them. I’ve searched every inch of my home, and there’s not a single hint of somebody breaking in. No alarms on my security footage, and no fucking ropes.
I’m losing my mind, but that guy on the phone earlier, her friend who found her and brought her to the hospital, he said something that’s been playing in my mind. He said that she didn’t recognize him, that she was acting strange, saying weird things, almost like she hit her head and was hallucinating.
What if that is what this is? What if this stalker only exists inside her head?
32
KNIGHT
Isit with her for almost an hour when her eyes spring open, and a terrified gasp sails out of her mouth. “Woah, woah, woah,” I rush out, diving for her hand. “You’re safe, doll. You’re okay. Nobody can hurt you now.”
Her gaze shifts to mine, and she clutches my hand as though terrified I might let go. Her eyes are big, filled with fear as though reliving everything that just happened to her, scared that she’s still there in that alley.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her, reaching over and cupping the side of her face. “I’m not leaving. You’re safe now.”
Harper lets out a breath, closing her eyes as she leans into my touch. Her eyes immediately fill with tears and I gently wipe them away. “How bad is it?” she croaks, her throat hoarse, and I can only assume it’s from having to scream for freedom.
“It’s bad, doll,” I tell her, not wanting to sugarcoat it, knowing she can handle it. “You had emergency surgery and had repairsto your liver and spleen, but you’re in the clear. The surgeon was able to stop the bleeding. As for everything else, you’re going to be sore for a while. There’s lots of bruising and swelling, and I’m sure the police will want to take a statement.”
She visibly swallows, and I reach for the bottled water on the bedside table, pausing to put a straw in it before lifting it to her swollen lips. “Take a sip.”
