Behind Every Lie(5)

Something scratched at the surface of my mind, a fingernail against glass. Muffled voices came from very far away. A low ringing echoed in my ears, punctuated by an exasperated female voice.

Unconscious.

Murder.

Lightning.

A flash of memory bore down on me like an image emerging from a Polaroid.

My mom crumpled on the floor. An overturned chair. Light. Then shadows. Then the image disappeared and I was running. And then nothing—the memory was gone.

I struggled against the weight of my eyelids and moaned. I was in a hospital. A doctor in a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck approached. She was tall, midforties. Ruler-straight body. She had blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail, almond-shaped blue eyes, and cheekbones rising sharply under freckled skin.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. She popped a straw in a plastic cup of water and held it to my lips. I slurped greedily.

“Hello, Eva.” Her voice was soft and comforting. “I’m Dr. Patricia Simm. Your fiancé’s just gone to get a coffee, but he’ll be back shortly.”

Liam. I exhaled, weak with relief.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were speaking into a ball of cotton.

“I hurt,” I croaked. I tried to sit up, but the room slithered around me. Pain seared along my skull.

Dr. Simm helped me sit, then pressed her stethoscope to my chest and listened. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

She placed two of her fingers in my palms, and I squeezed, my fingers thick and awkward. She then probed my arms, lifted and bent them at the elbows.

“Do you feel this?”

“Yes.”

“Good. There’s a little weakness on your left side but nothing to be concerned about.”

As she lowered my left arm, I caught sight of a strange pattern on my skin spreading up from a gauze bandage wrapped around my forearm. I pushed the hospital gown sleeve up higher. The visible skin on my arm was covered in pink, fernlike markings, feathery branches stippled with angry red blisters.

“Wha … ?”

“Those are called Lichtenberg figures. I know they look psychedelic, but they’re harmless. They trace the path of the electricity that went through your body when you were struck by lightning.”

Struck by lightning?

She straightened, flipping the stethoscope back around her neck and smiling wryly. “They’ll disappear in a few weeks. Right now they’re a testament that you survived something extraordinary.”

I stared at her blankly.

“Don’t worry if it’s all still a blur—that’s completely normal after getting struck by lightning. You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in early this morning. Your left eardrum burst, so you’re likely experiencing some temporary hearing problems—”

Liam burst in, crossing the room in two long strides.

“Eva! Thank God you’re all right!” His hair was standing on end, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His jaw was thick with morning growth, and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. He wrapped his arms around me. “I got the first ferry I could when the police called.”

I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling safe for the first time since I’d woken. He was wearing one of the tight, Lycra T-shirts he wore for rowing, the slippery material cool against my throbbing ear. I touched my head and winced. A thick bandage covered a tender lump just above my left temple.

Dr. Simm noticed. “You got a pretty fierce bump to the head, so I’ve scheduled a CAT scan. The burns on your ears are from where your jewelry melted, and we had to cut your shirt off. We have some antibiotics in your IV to make sure those blisters on your arm don’t get infected. We’ll keep you in for observation for a few days, and I want to run a few more tests now that you’re awake, but physically speaking, you’re a remarkably lucky woman.”

She went on to list the physical afflictions I might experience: Parkinson’s-like muscle twitches, severe headaches, scar tissue from the thermal burns, temporary or partial paralysis in my weak left hand.

“What we really need to look out for,” she continued, “are psychological issues: paranoia, personality changes, mood swings, memory loss. Even trouble concentrating. All of these we’ll watch for and deal with if they arise. You’ll need to take it easy at first, okay? Lots of rest to help your mind and body heal. And I’ll prescribe you some meds to help.”

Dr. Simm glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze. A man I didn’t recognize approached from the corridor and paused in the doorway. He was of average height and build with a thin mouth and short-cropped, dark hair that showcased tiny ears. His eyes were deep-set in a long, wolfish face, an intense, piercing blue against his pale skin. He radiated a sort of feral aggression that instantly set me on edge.

“Hello, Miss Hansen. I’m Detective Kent Jackson. I’m part of a task force with the Seattle Police Department.”

His accent was East Coast, the flattened consonants and distended vowels of Boston. He stepped into the room, his brown leather jacket creaking over a collared blue shirt and dark jeans.

I squeezed my eyes shut and I knew. Somehow I knew what he was going to say.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this. Your mother has unfortunately died. We believe she was murdered and we’re investigating it as a homicide.”