Confidential(49)

Once the street was deserted, I had to admit, I was a little spooked. I was surrounded by multimillion-dollar houses, but I’d just been attacked in front of one of them. It was like nowhere was safe.

I was also a little spooked by my decision. What if I misjudged and gave myself a concussion or internal bleeding? I was lucky to be alive. I didn’t want to screw that up.

Then there was the fact that my bystander’s name was Kate, like the universe was telling me to cease and desist.

Well, I’d always had a rebellious streak, and besides, the universe had also presented me with this golden opportunity to get back into Michael’s good graces. If I had to get mugged, I wanted to profit. Make lemonade out of lemons.

There was no time to waste. Michael was already on his way. I hoped.

I surveyed the street. I kind of wished someone was coming so that I could abort the mission, but nope, it was just me, alone, under cover of darkness. You’d think the residents could afford—or would insist—on streetlights, but no, they had other priorities. Really, the moment couldn’t have been more perfect.

I sprawled out the way I had just minutes ago, my head to the pavement. Then I smacked my forehead. Holy shit, you really could see stars. And I managed to scrape it, too, so that when I touched my welting head with my fingertips, they came away with a smear of blood. As long as I hadn’t accidentally concussed myself, it couldn’t have gone better. I stayed there a long minute, waiting for the pain and the disorientation to subside until it was a lucid ache.

I looked around again furtively. Then I sat down on the sidewalk with my feet in the street, and . . . wham. I coldcocked myself right in the jaw. No stars this time, but it smarted, and it was surely going to bruise.

Michael, where are you? He was only a five-minute drive away, seven minutes tops. He should have thrown on some clothes and raced out. You didn’t dillydally when the woman you loved had just survived a brutal attack. But then, the other Kate hadn’t made it sound very brutal. She just talked about my cell phone. He was going to be surprised when he saw the condition of my face. That would work in my favor.

It occurred to me that I should gather up the contents of my purse and see exactly what was missing. Fortunately, he’d only been interested in the cash and the phone. All my credit cards were intact. My compact mirror had a jagged crack down the middle, and I was shocked to see my face in it. It was unreal, like stage makeup, like I was playing a battered woman. Except for the scraping on my forehead, it was rapidly purpling bruises. I would heal, with no scars. But man, I looked rough.

What would people say at work tomorrow? Maybe I’d call out. I could just stay in Michael’s bed all day.

That was, if he ever showed up.

Without a phone, I had no idea how to pass the time, and I had no idea how much time had passed. I couldn’t call and demand to know what was keeping him, and he couldn’t call me to say he’d decided not to come. I was trapped here, on a street that was demonstrably unsafe, with a bashed-in face and sore knees.

This might not have been my finest hour.

What would Kate—my Kate, or the woman who used to be my Kate—have said if she could have seen me? It would have confirmed that I was not myself. Because this had better not be myself.

I needed to call her and tell her I was okay. I could do it from Michael’s phone, if he ever arrived. I’d tell her that I got mugged and Michael was my knight in shining armor. See? Our relationship was going great.

Where the fuck was he?

I might need a plan B. If he didn’t show up soon, I’d knock on a door and ask to call a cab. No one would turn me away, looking like this. Of course, they might ask a bunch of pesky questions or be like the other Kate and try to make me call the police.

Calling the police was plan C. Think how bad Michael would feel if he had to pick me up at the police station after I’d been paging through books of mug shots. Was that how it was done? I didn’t know; I’d never been the victim of a violent crime before.

No, I couldn’t go to the police. The mugger had shoved me, but he wasn’t trying to injure me. He just wanted my stuff. If I went in looking like this, it could be a lot worse for him, if they found him. Not that they’d find him, with my generic description.

The strangest thing was that I felt compassion for the guy. I felt a certain kinship. I really and truly understood desperation, and his was probably a lot more legitimate than mine. It was hard to earn enough money to exist in the Bay Area. For all I knew, he had kids. Hungry mouths to feed. He’d tried to do it the right way, the honest way, and life just got away from him. Suddenly, he was doing things he never could have imagined. Like snatching purses. Like smashing his head into a pavement and throwing a left hook into his own jaw. You know, normal acts of desperation.

It had gone way too far. My face was throbbing, and I had my feet in a gutter. Yet all I wanted was to see Michael’s frightened face and have him grab me and tell me that he hadn’t realized how much he loved me until right that second.

I saw a car moving slowly, and yes, yes, it was him. I stood up and waved with way too much exuberance for a woman who’d been recently assaulted, but I couldn’t help myself. I was bowled over. He came for me. He. Came. For. Me.

He stopped the car, and the hazards went on. He got out and regarded me. Then it was like I’d imagined: him pulling me to him ferociously, and then lifting his trembling fingers to my jacked-up face, and he didn’t need to say he loved me, it was just so incredibly, wonderfully obvious. I didn’t ask what took him so damned long because it didn’t matter; he was here now and beside himself. Over me.