As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (30 page)

“You were both in the water.”

“You were drugged,” Bernadette said, her voice soft and sympathetic. “We think she drugged you with the wine, pushed you into the water, and then may have slipped and fallen herself. She has a contusion on her temple, most likely from hitting the dock as she fell.”
 

My gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. “Where is she? Where’s Sydney?”

“She’s in ICU right now,” Dr. Heath said from where he stood on the far side of the little room. “Her condition is stable, but it’s not good.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

The doctor hesitated, and Clay was the one who answered. “She’s in a coma.”

It felt as if the bottom fell out from the pit of my stomach.
 

The doctor murmured about continuing his rounds and sending a nurse in to check on me as he slipped from the room, but I wasn’t listening.
 

I was shaking, and I pressed my fist against my lips so hard I tasted blood. My stomach roiled and lurched. “I’m going to be sick,” I mumbled.

Bernadette grabbed the pink basin from the table and thrust it at Clay. He held it for me as I lost what little contents my stomach contained. He stroked my hair back from my forehead, and when a nurse appeared at the bedside, he took the cold, damp cloth from her and mopped my face with it.

When the heaving stopped, I cried. Clay’s arms enfolded me in a tight embrace as I clung to him, and wept, and struggled to fathom that the woman I had loved as a sister, and whose friendship I had cherished, had tried to kill me. And I had no memory of it.

Hours after I’d been discharged, I sat in the curtained alcove of the ICU. In the harsh light, I stared at the woman, now a stranger to me, lying in the bed.
 

Her skin held a waxy pallor, and a machine breathed for her through the tube in her throat. Her hair had come loose, but the remnants of the fishtail braid she favored still bound some of the dark strands. Her features were stark and hauntingly lovely, and devoid of all expression.

My throat was so tight it felt solidified, and I could barely draw a pained breath.

Mr. Beecher waited outside the intensive care unit. The number of visitors allowed was restricted, and he’d given up his time so I could see her. The devastation on his face had been almost unbearable. He’d looked ancient. And broken.

I felt torn asunder as I stared into my friend’s slack face. Everything within me rebelled against what I’d been told. “I never would have done anything to intentionally hurt you,” I whispered. “I hope you know that.”

The only reply was the mechanical, breathy soughing of the ventilator and the beeping of the machines.
 

Tubes were everywhere, but I reached over the railing of the bed and lifted her hand. That side of my face felt tender and bruised, but I molded her cold, limp hand to my cheek. “Oh, Syd,” I breathed.
 

She was reserved and straightlaced, but I had never doubted her loyalty. I couldn’t reconcile the woman I knew with what had happened.
 

“I wish you had told me. I wish you had railed at me and fought, and in the end we could have laughed over it.” My voice quavered. “I’ll never think of you as anything but the friend I knew you to be, I swear it.”

“No brain activity,” Mr. Beecher had murmured when we’d spoken in the hallway, his gaze hollow.
 

She’d been too long without oxygen. Machines kept her alive for now, but decisions would have to be made.

My chin trembled, and I placed her hand over her chest before lowering the bedrail. I avoided the tubes running to and from her body, and I lay down beside her, pillowing my head on her narrow shoulder and wrapping my arms around her lithe frame. Her hair tickled my cheek, and when I turned my face into it, I caught the faint trace of her perfume.

I thought I had cried all my tears with Clay, but they came again in raw, harsh sobs. I stroked her arm, and it was cool to the touch. “Sydney,” I wept. “Sydney, my friend. Sydney.”

I cried until my eyes were gritty and swollen. Until each breath was a full-bodied shudder. Until my nose ran and then clogged. Until the pressure in my head made my ears hurt. I cried until I was hollow. Until a nurse touched my shoulder and, in a low, kind voice, said, “I’m sorry, miss. I’m afraid visitation time is over for now.”

I nodded and tried to thank her, but my voice was only a hoarse croak. I crawled from the bed, raised the railing again, and then leaned over and kissed my friend’s smooth cheek. “I love you.”

A lone tear slipped from the corner of her eye and spilled down her temple.
 

I walked out of the intensive care unit and found my family in the waiting room. My parents sat on either side of Sydney’s father. Julia sat beside my mother, and Darcy stood with Clay. All their gazes swung toward me, and I took in the varying degrees of sorrow, confusion, and concern on their faces. Then I turned and shoved through the swinging doors into the corridor.

“Finch!” Darcy cried, but I didn’t stop.

It was Julia who caught up with me at the elevators. We rode down together in silence.
 

When we reached the ground floor, she said, “I’ll drive you home.”

The silence continued until she pulled into my apartment complex’s parking lot.

“Julia?” I whispered. “Why are we friends?”

Her cheeks were damp with tears when she turned to me. “Don’t. Please don’t. She was my friend, too, Finch, and I can’t even comprehend how she could do something so . . .” Her face crumpled and she let out a sob. “Don’t allow her this, too. There are so, so many people who care about you, who love you, with no maliciousness, no ulterior motive. You and I are friends because you’re the sister I never had, and because I admire and respect you. And I hope that will be enough for you.”

I wanted to assure her it was, but I couldn’t form the words, so I kissed her cheek and slid from the vehicle.

I didn’t look back when I heard her drive away. I let myself into my apartment, locked the door behind me, and set the alarm. Then I leaned against the wall and slid down until my backside hit the floor. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I hugged my thighs to my chest and dropped my forehead to my knees. I stayed huddled there as night fell, dozing off and on for hours, stirring only when the darkness gave way to the faded light of a winter morning.

Stiffness made my joints creak in protest when I staggered upright. I sagged against the door, struggling to find the energy to remain vertical. The gnawing ache I felt was so deep it was a physical pain in my chest, and I rubbed my breastbone. I glanced around my apartment as if stepping into a strange new world. Nothing felt familiar, and it sharpened the pain inside me.
 

My gaze snagged on my car keys lying on the kitchen counter. With sudden resolve, I strode to my room.
 

I showered and dressed in faded jeans, an oversized sweater, and snow boots. Without bothering to put on makeup or attempting to tame my hair, I collected the bag I always had packed in my closet. After grabbing my keys on the way out the door, I sent a text to my family, Clay, and Julia.

Need a little time away. Will be in touch.

I tossed the bag in the backseat of my car and slid behind the wheel.
 

Before I pressed the button to turn off my phone, I saw I’d automatically included Sydney in the text. My fingers trembled, and it took me several tries before I managed to insert the key in the ignition.
 

Once the engine sputtered to life, I reversed out of the parking spot and then shoved it into gear. As I sped out of town and hit the open highway, I handled my car as if I were in a race and, although I knew I couldn’t outrun what I was leaving behind, it felt good to try. And with the window rolled down, I could blame the icy wind lashing across my face for the stinging in my eyes.

The exhaustion lingering from my hospital stay overtook me in Buffalo, and I exited the highway and checked in to a hotel. Though it was midday, I fell across the bed without bothering to remove even my boots, and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
 

I didn’t awaken until the next morning when the sun crept through the smudged windows and across my slumber-creased face. My eyes were gritty, and my body felt weighty with sleep, but a shower and coffee from the room’s single-cup brewer revived me. After checking out of the hotel, I filled up my tank at the gas station across the road then bought a soda and candy bar for breakfast and pulled onto the highway once more.
 

I wasn’t sure where I was going until I’d driven several more hours and come to the Ogdensburg-Prescott International Bridge.
 

As I crossed through border control into Canada, my driving was no longer aimless.
 

I spent the night in a hotel outside of Ottawa and the next morning continued north, passing into Québec. As I left town, civilization receded in the face of the Canadian wilds. The highway dwindled to two lanes, weaving through boreal forest in the grip of winter, quiet and snow laden. The roads were in good condition, and despite the frequent moose-crossing signs, there was little traffic, and none of the four-legged variety.

There were small, sporadic islands of human existence in the moat of wilderness—evidence of logging and small, ramshackle clusters of buildings, usually near water. I crossed countless bridges, and the rivers and streams below ran icy and black.

I came to a T in the road in the small town of Mont-Laurier. The road signs were in French, but I took Route Transcanadienne west, passing into the La Vérendrye wildlife reserve. The road meandered around the growing number of bodies of water, and the rivers grew wider and slower, flowing into still lakes.
 

I remembered Timothy’s maps, and my fingers tightened on the steering wheel when I saw the sign labeled RÉSERVOIR CABONGA. I slowed to a halt in the middle of the road and stared. The man-made lake was a webbing of inlets sprawled across two hundred sixty-one miles. I swallowed and remembered Timothy’s hope.
 

“We’re not too far, right?”

Ahead, I could see a gravel turn-off and a smaller, wooden sign. I crept toward it.