Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“I checked up on her Monday night. She didn’t answer. I had to break in. I found her on the kitchen floor, wrists slashed, dozens of empty pill pots around her.” He goes back to the pad he’s writing on. “I didn’t tell you because you’ve got enough on your plate.”
And because he didn’t want me to feel guilty. I feel so guilty. Fuck, what have I done? “What hospital?” I ask, standing.
He looks up at me. “No.”
I turn and walk out, dialing Sarah, and she answers after just one ring. “What hospital are you at?”
Silence. Surprise?
“Answer the question, Sarah.”
“The Royal London,” she says, sounding as meek as I’ve ever heard her sound. “They’ve discharged me. I’m waiting for a taxi.”
“Cancel it. I’m on my way.” I hang up, looking back at John stomping after me. “She’s been discharged.”
“Then I should go.”
“I’m going.”
“For fuck’s sake,” John mutters, reluctantly backing down, holding up a bunch of keys. Sarah’s. “You’ll need these. Call me.”
I reverse my steps and take them, my emotions all over the fucking place. Guilt, hurt, anger.
Drew’s coming up the steps as I’m leaving. “Where are you going?” he asks as I pass.
“Did you know Sarah’s in the hospital?” I question, trying and failing not to sound accusing. His silence speaks volumes. “And no one thought to tell me?”
“You’ve got enough on your plate,” Sam says, appearing on the steps with John.
“No, I fucking haven’t,” I yell. “Because my wife’s walked out on me, and I’m not allowed to even try and win her back so, actually, I’ve got fuck-all on my plate to deal with because I’m giving her fucking space!” I get in my car and wheel-spin off, blinking back the anger, because of all the emotions, that one’s the most potent. For someone who supposedly loves me, Sarah doesn’t half know how to stick the fucking knife in.
Fucking woman.
I have enough deaths on my conscience.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s Sarah sitting on the wall outside the hospital. She looks small, pale, and weak. Drained. I’ve never seen her be anything but perfectly made up, tits out, shoulders back. A salacious smirk stretching her red painted lips. Today, she’s the polar opposite—her blond hair scraped back, her chest covered with a fleece hoodie, her shoulders hunched in. The sleeves are pulled over her hands. Hiding the bandages.
I get out and walk to the wall, stopping nearly toe to toe with her. Her head is low, and I can see the effort it takes for her to lift it and look up at me. This is not the Sarah I’ve known for years. She didn’t even look this pitiful when she lost her daughter. I wince away that thought, feeling more guilt.
She blinks, her blue eyes glassy. “You didn’t have to come,” she says quietly.
I press my lips together and crouch to relieve her of the strain to look up at me. Just fucking look at her. “I did,” I reply softly, knowing I could be making things so much worse, but I’m unable to stop myself from caring. Her bare, dry lips tremble as she tries to hold back her tears. I’m at a fucking loss, unsure how to navigate these murky waters. I know I won’t be increasing my chances of making amends with Ava if I help Sarah try to get back on her feet, but I don’t think I can turn my back on her. Not even after everything she’s done. I didn’t want this. I never knew it might come to this.
I reach for her arm, pushing back the material of her sleeve to reveal a bandage. “Sarah,” I breathe in despair. “What have you done to yourself?” A tear drops onto her cuff and soaks into the material.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice croaky, as she pulls down the sleeves again, holding them in place with her fingers, pinning them to her palms.
“Come on,” I say, cupping her elbow and taking her weight, helping her stand, feeling her exhaustion. “Let’s get you home.”
I walk her slowly to my car and get her in, putting her bag in the boot. The drive is long and silent, and it’s only when I pull up outside her flat that I realize I’ve never been inside. Feeling inevitably on edge, I get her out and walk her slowly up the steps, letting us in with the keys John gave me.
I’m sure I can thank John that the blood and pills have been cleaned up. But it’s desolate. It’s the only word that comes to mind when I get her inside, settling her on the couch. “I’ll make tea.” I go to the kitchen and search for mugs. I find one in a cupboard with one plate, one bowl, and one glass. “Jesus,” I whisper, getting it down and going to the drawers, pulling one open after the other. All empty except for the bare minimum utensils and a few knives and forks. I lift the kettle off the stand. Empty. I go to the fridge and pull it open. There’s a pint of milk. Out of date.