Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Holy shit. I turn my head left and right, squeezing my eyes shut against the searing pain, and there is Libby, bent over me and crying. And I really must be confused about what’s going on, because she’s wearing scrubs. Libby looks beautiful in scrubs.
Elizabeth
HUNTER IS IN and out of consciousness for almost two days. They say it’s not that long considering the bullet’s trajectory through the left side of his chest and where it lodged—by one of the branches of his axillary artery. He almost bled to death in the hour-long helicopter ride to the UC San Diego Hospital, and when we got here, they wheeled him straight into surgery, which lasted four excruciating hours.
The nurses let me stay by him in the ICU when he came out. I think because Marchant Radcliffe told everyone that I’m his fiancé.
The first forty-eight hours in the ICU, Hunter’s mostly sleeping. The incision, on his back, around his shoulder blade, is called a thoracotomy and is supposed to be one of the most painful sites for surgery. So they have to keep him asleep. I hate it, and spend probably too much time sitting by his bed crying. Cross stays with me for most of the first day, but he has to go back to rehab the next. Suri gives me some company, too, and of course Marchant is in and out.
The weirdest thing that happens in the first forty-eight hours is that my mom visits. She’s wearing a skirt suit—my designer-loving mother’s definition of drab—and her hair, which she normally pulls into a dramatic up-do, is flowing down her shoulders, much like mine. I meet her in the ICU waiting room, and when she hugs me, I start sobbing. I have to say, it’s one of the weirdest experiences I’ve had in years. It’s even weirder when she says she’s staying.
So that’s what happens. While I’m asked every imaginable question by the FBI, my mother keeps me fed and brings me clean clothes and tries to make me sleep.
On the second night after we arrive—the night Dave tells me that Michael Lockwood, AKA Jim Gunn, AKA a few other names, is being charged with the abduction of Missy King, Ginnifer Lucky, Cross, and me, plus the murder of Sarabelle—I’m a teary mess. I cry a lot, and Marchant charms his way in so the two of us sit side by side in plastic chairs and talk about the mess Hunter’s been in. We also speculate about Priscilla, who hasn’t been seen since Mexico.
After we talk for a while, I go into the waiting room and eat some fast food with my mother. This is when I find out that she knows what I did at the ranch. I guess she overheard one of the investigators talking about it. When she first brings it up, I freak out, but it turns out all she wants to say is sorry.
“I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to our family with my addiction, Elizabeth. I can’t stand to think of how much money I’ve wasted. It makes me sad that you were so desperate.”
I try to explain to her that I wasn’t just desperate—I was also tired of being a virgin—and to my surprise, she says she understands, at least a little.
That actually feels good.
Later in the night, I talk a lot to Hunter. His vitals are looking stronger now, and they want to test his breathing without the aid of machines, so they’ve started weaning him off some of his sedatives. I’m sitting by his bed, staring at his monitors, when all of a sudden he moans, and I get a peek of his eyes. He’s been squeezing my hand since yesterday, but seeing his eyes...it’s amazing.
“Hunter,” I whisper.
He grimaces and turns his head toward me. His eyes barely peek open, but I can see him trying to focus on my face. His hand, in mine, squeezes. He gives me the smallest little smile, and in his hoarse voice, he says, “I missed you.”
Tears fill my eyes. “I missed you, too.”
The third day, sometime in mid-morning, Hunter opens his eyes again. He looks dazed, then troubled.
I rub his fingers. “Hi. Are you okay?”
He frowns then looks around the little room. His eyes return to mine and his hand squeezes harder. “Libby…” His lips twist downward, and when he speaks, the words are hoarse. “I…don’t know where we are.”
“That’s okay.” I stroke his palm. “You don’t remember because you got hurt.”
He looks me over. His brows are drawn together and his lips look dry. “I saw you. You were wearing scrubs.”
I nod. That was before I had my own clothes, shortly after we got here. “I just borrowed them to wear for a little while.”
I can see it dawn on him. His face loses some of his color, and his heart rate rises just a little. “Lockwood got you.”