She drew her call button tighter against her hip and pulled herself straight against the pillows. I heard the strain in her breaths.
“I know,” she rasped. “The police have been asking all kinds of questions about you. I told them there was no way you could be involved in something like this. But they keep asking, like I might change my mind. I told them I won’t.” She took a few thin breaths and sunk back into the pillows. “I’m glad you’re here, but it’s probably better if you go. My mom will be back any minute and I’d hate for you to get in trouble.”
I looked between Posie and the door. Someone called the nurses’ station pretending to be me. I knew I should leave, but I had so many questions. “Is there anything you remember . . . anything at all that might help me figure out who did this to you? Did you see anyone? Talk to anyone?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember a thing. The police said I was drugged. They said someone put something in my soda. I remember eating lunch, and then feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach. I left my friends to find the bathroom, and then everything just went blank. I woke up here. They said I have to stay until my burns are better.” Her brief recollection seemed to drain all of her energy, and I helped settle her back on her pillows. She couldn’t help me. It had been a mistake to come.
“It’s okay,” I said, as much to comfort myself as to ease the worry on Posie’s face. “You don’t have to say any more.” I straightened her blankets. A medical chart hung at the foot of her bed. “Posie? Would it be okay if I looked at your chart?”
She nodded and I hurriedly flipped through the pages of a toxicology report. Posie’s bloodwork had tested positive for ketamine, the same drug Nicholson said they’d found in Emily Reinnert’s water bottle.
The rest of the report held no surprises. Just as I’d expected, hydrofluoric acid burns. The fumes were strong enough to damage her respiratory system, but as long as there was no direct contact with her eyes, the cotton and tape should be temporary and her lungs would get stronger and heal over time. I couldn’t say the same about her arm. That scar would stay with her for the rest of her life. I thumbed through the rest quickly—her vitals, which seemed fairly stable, and a treatment plan showing an estimated discharge date a few days from now. She’d be fine.
A series of loud beeps erupted from her IV monitor and we both startled. Her bag hung empty, the last drops sinking close to her hand. “You should probably go,” she said. “The nurses will be in soon to change my IV.”
A stack of fresh gowns and surgical caps were folded neatly on a chair. I grabbed a set quietly and pulled them over my clothes.
Posie wheezed and started coughing. I didn’t think, just reached for her hand, needing to know she would be okay. “I’ll be fine. Just go. I won’t tell anyone you were here.” Her strength ebbed through my fingers in steady, reassuring waves. Posie would be fine, and now I was one step closer to understanding the person who’d done this to her. Emily, Posie, and Marcia had all been drugged.
I gave her hand one last squeeze and cracked the door before slipping into the hall. I walked quickly toward the end of the hall, away from the nurses’ station, looking for emergency exit signs that might lead me another way out. A police officer emerged from the stairwell and walked toward me. Every nerve ending screamed at me to run. He was on his phone and didn’t seem aware of me, so I kept my head down and shuffled past. I took the stairs fast and threw open the door, emerging in a hallway near the hospital chapel. I darted into the nearest bathroom, stripped off the gown and tucked it into the trash bin, plucking the visitor’s pass from my shirt. I was about to toss it in the can and find a less conspicuous exit than the one in the main lobby, but then I paused. Would it be suspicious if Mary Jones never signed out?
I carried the pass to the visitor’s desk, darting looks through the lobby to make sure I hadn’t been noticed. The wrinkled attendant smiled and held out a basket of used passes. I dropped it in and thanked her, reaching for a pen.
I found my name, Mary Jones, and signed out. Several unfamiliar names followed, but I gripped the clipboard tighter when I recognized my name. Not Mary Jones. My real name. Nearly Boswell had signed in, visited with Posie Washington in Rm #214, and signed out. Three minutes ago.
I wanted to tear off the sign-in sheet and stuff it into my pocket, but the attendant was watching, politely waiting to see me off. I held the clipboard too long. “Good day,” she said, lifting it from my hands. I looked up at the high ceiling as though I could see through the floors. Nearly Boswell wasn’t in class or with friends. She was officially logged in the hospital record as a visitor.
I never should have come.
27