Page 59 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“They found the bloody crowbar in your trunk.”

My eyes pop wide open. “What? No, that’s impossible. He’s lying. I want to see him.” I pull at a needle in my hand and ignore the blood pumping from the little hole now there.

“Jade, for fuck’s sake, stop,” he orders with a growl. He attempts to hold my hands still, but I struggle against him, my blood making a mess of the white sheet covering my lap. “We need a nurse in here, goddammit!”

“Let me go, Dillon,” I screech. “I need to know why he’s lying about what happened. Maybe whoever hit him is blackmailing him.”

“You can’t talk to him,” he argues. “He’s in the OR. Critical condition.”

Hot tears well in my eyes. “I want to be left alone.” I pull my arm from his grasp.

“Don’t do this,” he says, his tone beseeching. “Don’t pull away from me. I’m trying to help you.”

“Nurse,” I demand when I locate the call button, and he flinches in response.

A skinny woman appears at the door and looks in at the bloody mess I’ve made of my hand. She groans and then hollers for another nurse to help her.

“I want to be left alone,” I repeat. They both turn to look at Dillon and when he moves from the bed, I instantly mourn the loss of his comfort.

He shakes his head and rubs at the blood from my hand on his. “Don’t push me away, Jade. We will get this monster and I will make you realize you’re not alone in this anymore. Nothing anyone can say or claim can turn me from you or make me believe this is all in your head. And I certainly don’t believe you beat a man twice your size to near death with a fucking crowbar. DNA doesn’t lie which is why this stupid accusation will be thrown out before morning.” He nods once and then I’m staring at his retreating back. The door swings closed behind him as he leaves and a sob rips from my chest. The pain is excruciating in my ribs, but I fight through it, letting myself cry.

“DOES IT HURT?”

My hand lifts to the bruise on my cheek and I raise a nonchalant shoulder.

“It’s what happens when a man tackles you.”

“Who was the man?”

“What does it matter?”

She shifts in her seat and I stare at the water. Today, she’s added a celery stick to it. I want to scream at her, ask why, but I don’t. Instead, I gaze at it, tiny bubbles collecting in the bottom. It must have been sitting out a while.

“You appear sad today,” she says. “Why is that?”

Flicking my eyes to hers, I will her to burst into a fiery ball of flames, but she doesn’t.

You appear sad.

I can’t believe we have to pay for this crap.

“Maybe I am sad,” I offer, pinning her with my stoic stare.

“Can you tell me why that is? What’s happened to make you feel this way?”

She crosses her legs and places her pen down on the arm of her chair. She’s back in one of those gutsy pantsuits.

“Can I ask you a question?” I muse, leaning forward and rubbing at a scuff on my shoe.

“Of course.” She smiles, picking up her pen.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly, you envision it, but don’t know whether what you’re seeing is reality or just your own need for it to be real?”

She looks off into her sparse apartment, contemplating my question. “When a person has been through something traumatic, it’s not unusual for them to seek a resolution in their mind. It’s a coping mechanism—a way for them to finally be able to move on. You’re not crazy.” She smiles again.

“I didn’t say I was crazy,” I bite out, standing abruptly.

Placing her pad down, she leans forward, clasping her hands together. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

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