Of the Trees(43)

J. Evans. Female.

And then in big letters next to that: DOA.

Her heart stopped, and she fell to the bench in the middle of the hall, the wood hard beneath her. That was good, it grounded her, at least enough for her to unfold the rest of the note.

It was covered in writing: her mother’s patient schedule from last night, room assignments, random numbers that could have been weights or blood pressures or pulses—Cassie never knew which—and a list of findings on the body of J. Evans.

tib/fib micro fracture bilat

Tox screen: clear

lacerations bilat to feet, edema, bruising





rocks imbedded

The last line had been underlined, the pen pressed down hard. Cassie struggled to focus on the words, tried to make them make sense, but the paper started to shake, her hands trembling, and it fell from her fingers, landing face down on the carpet.

She knew what DOA meant, had heard countless stories from her mother about the men and women that were brought into the ER, too far gone for even the most advanced medicine, electric shocks, or any amount of chest thumping to bring them back. Dead On Arrival.

What were the chances that J. Evans was someone else? Someone not in her class, someone she hadn’t played softball with since she was five-years-old, someone who wasn’t dancing around a fire in the woods not even eight hours ago.

Panic was rising in Cassie, a surge of fear and guilt. She was with Jessica, maybe she was the last person with her. But she was alive then! Healthy and snarky and kind of a bitch, but alive. Wonderfully alive. Part of a Cassie refused to believe it, refused to consider that J. Evans was really Jessica Evans, that the girl she partied with last night was cold and unmoving, stuck in a cold drawer in the basement of the hospital.

Cassie trembled all over, blood rushing in her ears. She had to get to the hospital. She had to get to her mother and find out if J. Evans was really Jessica, if it was her fault her friend was dead.

At the thought, a surge of overwhelming guilt and anger coursed through her. Her jaw clenched, and her fingers curled to grip the edge of the bench, only one person on her mind. Jude. The carnie she knew was dangerous, was trouble.

He did it.

If it really was Jessica lying there, cold, in that hospital, then it was Jude who put her there.

She needed to see her mother, see the confused look settle over her features when Cassie asked and the cock of her head when she realized what her daughter meant, and then the bemused but wry grin as she explained. No, it was a different girl, not your friend. Not Jessica Evans.

Something sharp and painful twisted in Cassie’s chest. Some niggling feeling that she’d never get to see her mother’s face make that transition. She had to see her, to know if it was Jessica, to know if it was her fault for not dragging her bodily from the fire.

Cassie raced to her room, shedding pajamas along the way. She pulled on the first clothes she could find, worn jeans and a hoodie, pulling her hair up in a messy approximation of a bun. Her sneakers were in the hall, and she paused long enough to shove her feet in them before bounding back out into the weak sunlight, not even bothering to tell her father she’d been home.

The image of Jessica’s face beat behind her eyelids and Cassie blinked rapidly, trying to dispel it. She didn’t bother knocking at Laney’s, just threw open the door and ran up the stairs. Her parents always slept in on Sundays anyway.

Laney was still in bed when Cassie burst into the room. “Get up,” she said, her voice cold. The vision of Jessica’s face was taunting and sharp, and the fear that she was gone, truly gone, terrified Cassie. She felt a surge of anger toward her best friend, Laney, who was always defending the carnies. She stirred under the covers, groaning a bit.

“What—”

“Jessica is dead,” Cassie interrupted, her voice hard. Laney sat up, the blanket falling off the bed. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth fell open. She swallowed visibly and licked her lips.

“Huh? How?”

“How should I know?” Cassie spat, shoving the note she picked up off the floor at her friend. “I found these from Mom’s shift last night. See, look, DOA.”

“Which means?”

“Dead on arrival!” Cassie shouted. Laney flinched. “Get up, we have to find my mom.”

“She’s not at your house?”

“She’s back at work.” Panic and fear clogged Cassie’s throat. It was hard to take deep breaths. She turned to rifle through Laney’s clothes, picking out things at random and throwing them on the bed. Laney moved slowly behind her, stripping out of her pair of pajamas and picking up the jeans. “I’m freaking out. I need to get to her.”

“It doesn’t say Jessica,” Laney murmured, tugging the zipper of her jeans up. “Just J. Could it be someone—”

“I don’t know,” Cassie admitted through a dry throat. “But what if it’s not? We were there. We saw her. I need to get to Mom. She’ll tell me. Are you ready?”

Laney nodded, reaching over Cassie to her desk and grabbing a set of car keys. She pulled a sticky note too, scrawled a message about donuts on it and left it on her bedroom door in case her parents came looking for them. Cassie took off for the stairs, bouncing with impatience.

“Cassie, wait,” Laney called, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Cassie turned, impatient and angry. She needed to be moving. “What are you going to say?”