Run, Rose, Run(84)

Chapter

74



She couldn’t feel or see anything. She seemed to exist outside her body, painless and floating. She wondered if she was dead and her brain didn’t know it yet.

She struggled to open her eyes, and when she finally could, she gasped to see where she was. She was lying on a sagging mattress in a dim, humid room. There was no comforter or pillow, only thin sheets. The air smelled like stale and unwashed bodies. Her body was too heavy and she couldn’t sit up. She turned her head toward the window, where a few rays from a streetlamp shone through the vertical blinds. A thin wisp of cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling.

No, she thought. No, no, no.

She blinked, but the vision didn’t change. Sick as it made her, she knew the truth. She had always been here. Nashville was nothing but a dream—a warm, bright place she had conjured from a hundred dark nights of despair.

“Maybelle,” she cried, blindly reaching to the side of the bed. If she had her guitar, she wouldn’t be totally alone.

Then there were strong hands on her shoulders, shaking her, and her eyes opened for real in a room full of light. AnnieLee blinked in wonder. She was not in a dingy motel. She was lying in a hospital room, and a man’s stubbled, handsome face hovered inches from her own.

“AnnieLee,” he said. “You’re okay, AnnieLee. You were having a bad dream.”

“Who?” she said. She put her hands up to touch her damp cheeks, but the man gently took them away and held them in his own. Then she knew who he was, and who she was, and everything came back to her in a flood of color and relief.

“I lived?” she whispered. She clutched at Ethan’s fingers, proving to herself they were real. “Or is this some kind of messed-up heaven?”

Ethan gave a bark of a laugh—a sound of utter relief. “This is definitely not heaven, AnnieLee.” He glanced over at a steaming Styrofoam cup. “If it was, there’d be a lot of angels and much better coffee.” He grinned. “And you’re so damn ornery, I don’t know if Saint Peter’d let you in.” Then his expression turned serious and his eyes searched her face. “Oh, God, AnnieLee, I thought we’d lost you.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice. A large nurse in a bright-pink uniform had pushed her way into the room, waving a blood pressure cuff. “I’m going to need access to the patient. We have a little business to take care of.”

Ethan retreated to the far wall while the woman—her name tag said PATIENCE—checked AnnieLee’s blood pressure and pulse and then shone a flashlight into her eyes. “Looking good,” she said. “You play the lotto?”

“Never,” AnnieLee said. “Why?”

“Because I never heard of anyone surviving a four-story fall with barely more than a few scratches. If you got that kind of luck, dear, there’s no reason not to test it out. See if you can get yourself a piece of that three hundred million.”

“Oh,” AnnieLee said. “Right.” She shifted her legs under the covers, still marveling that she had lived. That this room and everyone in it—herself included—was real. “I’m really okay? I don’t think I can feel my feet.”

Patience smiled. “You’re pumped pretty full of painkillers right now because you’ve got a sliced-up heel and a gash along your left leg. But if someone asked me what’d happened to you, I’d’ve bet twenty bucks you just fell off a bike.”

“Luck be a lady tonight,” AnnieLee sang softly. Five heartfelt wishes, and survival hadn’t even been one of them. She was luckier than she’d ever thought possible.

“Hmm?” Patience said as she wrote something down on AnnieLee’s chart.

“Nothing. Just a song,” AnnieLee said. “So if I’m not really hurt, when do I get out of here? I’ve got a show I’m supposed to—”

“Not any time soon, you don’t,” Patience said. “You just lie back and relax. I’ll be back to check on you in another hour.”

When she left, AnnieLee turned to Ethan. “I can’t stay here,” she said.

He came back to her bedside. “You don’t have a choice. The concert’s been called off, and the police want to talk to you.”

Her heart gave a painful kick in her chest. “What for?” she managed.

“Because you plunged down fifty feet, AnnieLee, and it’s a miracle we didn’t need a spatula to pick you up.” He sighed and glanced out the window and then toward the hall. “Because they think that maybe someone pushed you. Or that maybe you might have done it on purpose.”

AnnieLee pushed herself up to a sitting position. She could feel her breath coming faster. Suicide? That’s what they thought this was?

The easiest thing to do—tell the truth—was also the impossible one. Because the story wouldn’t stop with the man in her hotel room, and it was a tale she never wanted told.

“I fell. I didn’t try to kill myself,” she said. “But even if I did, suicide’s not a crime.”

Ethan took her hand again. “What were you doing, messing around on the balcony like that?” he asked.

She turned away from him. “I need you to go to my hotel room,” she said. “Get me my bag and my phone and some clothes.”

“You can’t go anywhere,” he said.