Before She Was Found - Heather Gudenkauf HQ Fiction eBook

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bra that she doesn’t really need. Both are streaked with red. Her hands look as if they’ve been dipped in red paint, a stark contrast to her pale forearms. I scour her skin in search of any wounds but find none. I look to the doctor, a tall man who gives me a reassuring nod. “Looks like only a few bumps and bruises but we’ll check her over carefully.” He turns to one of the nurses. “Let’s get a heated blanket on her and then we can get her cleaned up.”

      “But all the blood...” I begin.

      “It’s not your daughter’s,” he says and I nearly collapse with relief. “I’m Dr. Soto. You can come on over next to her,” the doctor invites and I go to Violet’s side.

      I bend over her and lay the palm of my hand against her cheek. Her skin is cold to the touch. “Violet, honey,” I whisper, “what happened?” She blinks up at me and I see no recognition in her eyes. She opens her mouth but no words come out, only a weak croak. I think of head injuries, drugs and monstrous acts that might leave a child speechless. Panicked, I look to Dr. Soto, who has stripped the bloody gloves from his hands and drops them into a hazardous waste container.

      “She’s in shock,” he explains as if reading my mind. “We’ll get her warmed up, give her fluids and watch her vitals. Barring any complications, she most likely will be able to go home today.”

      “I want to stay with her,” I say, bracing myself for a fight. There’s no way I’m going to leave her side.

      “Of course,” Dr. Soto says and drags a chair from the corner of the room and situates it right next to the examination table. “Judy here will take care of you. I’ll be back in just a bit.” Dr. Soto briefly puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and exits the room. I sit down next to Violet, who still doesn’t seem to register my presence. Judy, a woman around my age with deep commas etched into the corners of her mouth, speaks to Violet in a low, soothing voice.

      “A little pinch here, Violet,” she says and I wince when she inserts a needle in the crook of Violet’s arm. She doesn’t even flinch. Judy draws several vials of blood and then sets up an IV drip of clear liquid. Then she reaches down with gloved hands and picks up Violet’s shorn clothing. I expect her to toss them into the wastebasket but instead she places them inside a plastic bag, seals it and affixes a label to the front. She reaches for a cell phone sitting on the metal tray and drops it into another bag and seals it shut.

      “Now I’m going to get you cleaned up, Violet. Does that sound like a good plan to you?” the nurse asks. Violet gives no indication that she hears the question.

      “Why won’t she answer?” I ask, tears stinging my eyes. “What’s wrong with her?”

      “Like Dr. Soto said, she may be in shock. It happens sometimes when there’s a traumatic event. You’ll come around, won’t you, Violet?” The nurse smiles down at her. “We’ll have you sitting up and talking in no time. But for now we’ll keep you warm and get all cleaned up.” The nurse holds up a small blue hospital gown. “First thing we’ll do is get you into this lovely outfit.” Judy deftly dresses her, nimbly shifting Violet’s weight so she can button the gown into place. Violet is nearly swallowed up in the fabric.

      “Do you know if Cora is okay?” I ask Judy, who situates a metal cart with an arrangement of paper envelopes, jars in a variety of sizes, a large tweezer, a camera and several other items I can’t identify next to Violet’s bed.

      “Cora?” Judy asks. I glance over at Violet to see if hearing her friend’s name brings any reaction. It doesn’t. “I don’t know who that is.”

      “She’s the other girl who was brought here. She came in an ambulance,” I explain. “She looked like she was hurt pretty badly.”

      “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Let’s just focus on Violet right now,” Judy says, holding up a small spatula-shaped tool. “See this, Violet? I’m going to use this to clean your fingernails, okay? It won’t hurt a bit.” I watch while Judy uses the spatula to scrape dried blood from beneath Violet’s fingernails and deposit it within one of the paper envelopes.

      This is when I understand that this nurse isn’t just treating my daughter for shock or dehydration, she’s collecting evidence. This is why they bagged up Violet’s bloody clothing and cell phone. That’s what the camera is for and the thought of others seeing photos of my daughter, half-dressed and covered in her best friend’s blood, is too much.

      My stomach lurches and I leap from the chair, unable to speak. I stagger out to the hallway in search of a bathroom. Probably from the look on my face, a woman pushing a cart of cleaning supplies points me in the right direction. I make it to the toilet just in time before I start heaving. The sour taste of the chicken marsala and wine Sam and I ate fills my throat.

      Who could have done this? She’s nearly catatonic and they are poking and prodding her to gather evidence. I think again of Cora, somewhere in this hospital being treated for terrible injuries. I need to know what is going on and at the same time want to know nothing. I only want to take Violet home with me and try not to think about any of this.

      I sit on the floor for a minute catching my breath before pushing myself up from my knees and flushing the toilet. I try to rinse the bitter taste from my mouth with water from the tap. I run my fingers through my hair and take several deep breaths before stepping back into the hallway. I’m still not ready to go back into Violet’s room. God, I’m such a coward.

      Dr. Soto is standing outside Violet’s room talking with the officer who drove us to the hospital. Dr. Soto glances my way, his face grim. My first thought is that Violet must have taken a turn for the worse and I press my fingers against the wall to steady myself. The officer turns and I register the worry in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. I will my legs to move me forward but I don’t want to hear what they are going to tell me. I have only been away for a few minutes. What possibly could have gone wrong?

      Dr. Soto and the officer move toward me and for an instant I want to run. If they can’t catch me they won’t be able to give me the news. My thoughts travel to the darkest corners: collapsed lungs, a brain bleed, a ruptured spleen, internal injuries that might have gone undetected. I can’t catch my breath and as they draw closer I press myself more closely to the wall, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear.

      “Ms. Crow,” the officer begins.

      My eyes are on Dr. Soto, who must recognize my terror and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Violet’s fine,” he says.

      I want to cry. I want to lash out at them for scaring me so badly. “What is it?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice but instantly I’m sorry for it. “Is it Cora, then? Is she okay?”

      Officer Grady ignores my question. “I really need to ask Violet a few questions,” he says. “We need to get as much information about what happened as possible.”

      “I told him that he needed to talk with you first before speaking with her,” Dr. Soto says before excusing himself.

      “I don’t know,” I hesitate. “She’s in shock. I don’t think she’s in any condition to talk to anyone. She tried to say something at the train yard but I couldn’t hear what it was. Maybe one of the other cops heard what she said.” Officer Grady shifts from foot to foot, runs a thumb across his lips but doesn’t say anything. “What?” I ask. “Do you know something? Did she say who did this?”

      “I just really need to question your daughter. The more time that passes, the harder it will be to work out what happened. Do I have your permission to talk to Violet?”

      “No,” I say. “No one is talking to Violet. Not until you tell me what you know. Who is he?” Again, the worst pinballs through my head. A sex trafficking ring, a deranged drifter, a serial killer. “If you won’t tell me, I want to talk to someone who will.”

      “One of the other officers did hear Violet say some names,” Officer Grady tells me, though I know he doesn’t want to.

      “Names?” My stomach

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