Chapter 17: Camilla's Kitchen Table

The footsteps went down the corridor and a door shut at the far end.

I opened my eyes.

The syringe lay on the tray beside my hip, capped, with a strip of white tape around the barrel.

The tape had two letters on it in blue ink, in a round, quick hand I had seen on a get-well card.

P.H.

I slid it into my sleeve.

I had my hand around it for the whole next minute, and my own pulse knocked against the plastic.

Then I clamped the IV tubing so nothing more ran into my arm.

I lay back, shut my eyes and thought: now I wake up confused.

Mitchell came back at four.

"Mara?" He sat on the bed and took my hand. "Sweetheart. Can you hear me?"

I let my eyelids flutter.

"Where am I?"

"Metro General. You fainted at the lawyer's. You've had a long night."

"I want to go home."

"Of course. In a little while."

"Now. Please. I hate it here."

I let my lip shake, because it was the truest thing I had said all week.

He studied me.

I saw him do the sum.

A woman who would not sign on Tuesday would still be home and alone on Saturday.

"All right," he said. "I'll have Camilla drive you."

Camilla walked in as he said it, and she glanced at the tray.

Her eyes stopped.

She looked at the empty place beside the bag, and then at me, and she said nothing.

She drove me home in her black Audi.

I had not known she was driving it again, and I sat in the passenger seat with my sleeve against my ribs.