Chapter 32: The Shattered Night
The phone rang and rang. In the silent apartment, the sound was an accusation. Ethan stared at the screen, at the photo of the two ice cream containers. She’d sent it eight minutes ago. He’d replied. She’d seen it. She always texted back something dumb, a sticker, an emoji.
Not this time.
A cold, sick feeling, different from the anxious warmth of their earlier intimacy, began to pool in his gut. He called again. It went to voicemail after the fourth ring. That meant it was ringing on her end. She was ignoring it, or she couldn’t answer.
“Stupid,” he muttered to the empty room, pulling on his boots. She’d probably dropped her phone in the parking lot. It was probably face-down, screen cracked, under her car. She was probably cursing, picking up apples. He grabbed his keys and a jacket, not bothering with a shirt over his t-shirt. The door slammed behind him, too loud in the quiet hallway.
The drive was a blur of stoplights and his own breathing. He parked haphazardly near the store’s entrance, his eyes scanning the lot. Her hatchback was easy to spot, way at the back, under the last functioning light. The dome light inside was on, the driver’s door open.
But no Mia.
He was out of his car, running. The asphalt was slick from an earlier drizzle he hadn’t noticed. The smell of wet earth and spilled coffee hit him before he saw the rest.
The groceries were scattered around the open driver’s door like the scene of a small, violent explosion. Apples, some whole, some crushed into pulpy messes. A carton of ice cream, melting, a creamy puddle seeping toward a storm drain. The bag of coffee. Her reusable tote, split at the seams.
And just beyond the arc of the open door, a shape on the ground.
“Mia?”
His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was too high, too thin.
She was curled on her side, facing away from him, one arm twisted underneath her. She was perfectly still. Her blonde hair was fanned out, partly stuck to her cheek. She was wearing her fleece pajamas, the pale blue ones with the little clouds. One leg of the pants was pushed up, her skin goosebumped against the cold asphalt.
“Mia, come on, this isn’t funny.”
He moved closer, his boots crunching on a piece of broken container. He rounded her body, kneeling down in front of her.
Her eyes were open. They stared past him, through him, at some fixed point in the middle distance. They weren’t the piercing, lively blue he knew. They were flat. Doll’s eyes. A faint, rasping breath came from her parted lips.
And there was blood.
A dark, slick trail of it from her hairline down her temple, drying at the edge of her jaw. More on her lip, where she’d bitten it. A violent, purple bruise was already blooming across the left side of her face, distorting the gentle curve of her cheekbone.
The world didn’t shatter. It inverted. The humming lights, the scent of coffee, the distant traffic—they all telescoped away into a silent, screaming point centered on her broken form on the ground. The cold of the asphalt seeped through his jeans, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was a void opening inside his chest.
He reached for her, his hands hovering, unsure where it was safe to touch. “Mia. Mia, look at me. It’s Ethan.”
Her eyes didn’t shift. Her breathing didn’t change.
He touched her shoulder, gently. “Can you hear me? What happened?”
A tremor went through her then, a full-body shudder that was more terrifying than her stillness. A low, wounded sound escaped her throat, not a word, not a sob. It was the sound of an animal stepped on.
His own breath hitched, a ragged gasp. He fumbled his phone from his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped it onto the wet ground. He snatched it up, the screen smeared with grime. The numbers 9-1-1 seemed like foreign symbols. He jabbed at them.
A calm, professional voice answered. “911, what is your emergency?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. A dry, clicking sound. He tried again. “My friend. She’s hurt. She’s on the ground. There’s blood.” The sentences were staccato, disconnected.
“Sir, can you tell me your location?”
He stared blankly at the supermarket sign. He knew this lot. He’d been here a hundred times. The name was gone. “Behind the… the grocery store. On Maple. The one with the green sign.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Her eyes are open. She’s not… she’s not answering.” His voice broke. “Please, there’s so much blood on her face.”
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes. It’s… it’s shallow. She’s shaking.”
“Okay, sir, I need you to stay calm. Help is on the way. Is there any obvious danger? Is anyone else there with you?”
His head swiveled, looking at the shadows between the cars. They were deep, and empty, and full of menace. The bench by the trees was just a dark shape. Anyone could be watching. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Don’t move her unless she’s in immediate danger. Talk to her. Keep her with us. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.” He dropped the phone to the ground, letting the dispatcher’s voice become a tinny background noise. He shifted closer, blocking her view of the empty lot, putting himself between her and everything else. He leaned down, his face close to hers.
“Mia. It’s me. It’s Ethan. Help is coming, okay? Just stay here. Stay with me.” He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers coming away sticky. His stomach lurched. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Her eyes flickered. Slowly, with immense effort, they focused on his face. They swam with a confusion so profound it was like looking into a void. Recognition didn’t dawn; it was a weak, guttering light trying to spark in a flooded cellar.
Her lips moved. A whisper, rusted and torn. “Apples.”
“What?”
“The… apples rolled.” A tear welled in the corner of her eye and traced a clean path through the blood and grime on her temple. “I couldn’t… pick them up.”
The utter normality of the statement, the heartbreaking focus on the spilled groceries, shattered what was left of his composure. A sob tore out of him, raw and ugly. He pressed his forehead against her unhurt shoulder, his body wracked with silent tremors that matched hers.
In the distance, the first faint wall of a siren carved through the night. It grew, slicing the air, coming closer. The red and blue lights painted the sides of the buildings in frantic, swirling strokes.
He lifted his head. “They’re here, Mia. They’re here.”
Her eyes had drifted shut. The tremors were subsiding, leaving a terrifying, profound exhaustion in their wake. He kept talking, a steady stream of nonsense about the ice cream, about the laundry, about how he’d picked the triple chocolate betrayal, his words a lifeline thrown into the dark water of her shock, not knowing if she could even hear him, holding on because it was the only thing left he could do.